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ON THE ART OF 
THE THEATRE 














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ON TH E ART OF 

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SMALL, MAYNARD (f COMPANY 



THE MASQUE OF LONDON. WAPPING OLD STAIRS 

Quite an impossible scene; that is to say, impossible to realize 
on a stage. But I wanted to know for once what it felt like to be 
mounting up impossible ladders and beckoning to people to come 
up after me. 


ON THE ART OF 
THE THEATRE 

By EDWARD GORDON CRAIG 

H 


BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD &? COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 



W 2.0 3 7 

.Ck> 

/fir 


First printed in England December 1911. 

New impressions January 1912, March 1912, June 191k, March 192k 

and January 1925. 

Translated and published in French in 1920; in Russian in August 1912 ; 
in Japanese in January 1912 ; in Italian in 192k. 


% THE PUBLISHERS WISH TO STATE THAT THIS EDITION 
IS IN ALL RESPECTS (BUT FOR A NEW PREFACE AND 
TWO ILLUSTRATIONS) IDENTICAL WITH THE SECOND 
EDITION. A REVISED EDITION WILL BE ISSUED LATER. 

33^ <51 1 

lit 



Printed in Great Britain. 



TO THE EVER LIVING GENIUS 
OF THE GREATEST OF ENGLISH ARTISTS 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

AND TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS MEMORY 
OF HIS WIFE 
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 


Note.—T he notes added to the second edition will be found 
printed in small italics. 


0 


PREFACE 


0 


T HIS book, written between 1904 and 1910, was 
published in 1911. Some of it was previously 
published in The Mask , 1908-9, and one of the 
Dialogues appeared as a booklet in 1905. 

It is not a text book ... no one will expect to 
find in it rules for producing plays, building theatres, 
or judging the merits of actors. 

So it must be taken for what it is, not for what 
it is not. 

My friends and the friends of any theatre wanting 
to develop will, I hope, welcome this new edition 
of my book. It is the best I can do in the way 
of putting down in words some of the thoughts 
which have been born as I worked towards a new 
theatre. 

It is the dream put into words, is it not? No 
one will be likely to ask it to be other than that. 

They will know that I no more want to see the 
living actors replaced by things of wood than the 
great Italian actress of our day wants all the actors 
to die. 

Is it not true that when we cry “ Oh, go to 
the Devil! ” we never really want that to happen? 
What we mean is, “ get a little of his fire and come 
back cured.’* 

And that is what I wanted the actors to do—some 
actors—the bad ones, when I said that they must 
go and the Ober-marionette replace them. 

“ And what, pray, is this monster the tTber- 
marionette ? ” cry a few terrified ones. 

The t)ber-marionette is the actor plus fire, minus 
vii 



PREFACE 






egoism: the fire of the gods and demons, without 
the smoke and steam of mortality. 

The literal ones took me to mean pieces of wood 
one foot in height; that infuriated them; they 
talked of it for ten years as a mad, a wrong, an 
insulting idea. 

The point was gained by them, and I think I owe 
them here a word of thanks . 1 

I remember the same thing happened when some¬ 
one put into my mouth the statement that I wanted 
to abolish the footlights. Up blazed their indig¬ 
nation, then as more recently, to illuminate the 
darkness and its actors. 

What I had said was “some footlights” : what 
I had done was to remove all the footlights . . . and 
then put some back again. It is quite likely I 
should put back all the footlights were I at 
work in my own theatre and remove certain other 
lights. 

It’s hideous, I know, this audacity of doing as 
one likes in one’s own house, but there*it is. We 
cannot create anything worth seeing or hearing if, 
like a tame crat, we must first ask others what they 
think is the best thing to do, and the safest. 

Our work is like a sport in that. No cricketer 
that I know of asks the bowler and the field how 
he is to play the oncoming ball, or if he' is ex¬ 
pected to look the other way so as to be prettily 
stumped. 

I think you know that I have, in my time, done a 
little drawing, some wood engraving and etching, 
and written some books. 

I was encouraged by draughtsmen, engravers and 

1 [See The Mask, vol. ix. p. 32.] 

viii 



P REF A C E 






men of letters to do as I liked when doing these 
works, and I see no sound reason why anyone 
belonging to the theatre, just because the theatre 
is so exceptional a place, should lay down the law 
that a nimble inventiveness, a firm independence 
and a style of one’s own are undesirable and wrong. 

I only wish I were more inventive, more indepen¬ 
dant and had a finer style to bring to my work. 

Another point on which I hope you can agree with 
me is this : 

Having damned all my notions for a new theatre 
—shall we call it a different theatre—a few offended 
ones of the stage and their satellites outside it, 
forbid me to carry them out. 

44 We consider your ideas are worthless, but should 
we later on find them of value we intend to carry 
them out for ourselves. Hands off! ” 

And sure enough before long they did begin to 
tinker with these notions themselves—thereby 
imperilling their immortal souls one would fancy, 
since the things were damned. 

These brave “ pioneers” having produced quite 
a little effect with these ideas, others took up 
pioneering. It went on famously for a while. 
They demanded of me why I flatly refused to show 
them other ideas by which they might profit. 
Quite a howl went up when I refused to do this, 
having the ordinary British desire in me to profit 
a little too. 

Never was such a pack of inconsistent demands 
and counter demands let loose as 4 4 the pooled intelli¬ 
gence ” of these indignant ones has let loose at 
me for the last fifteen years. 

I mustn’t do this—now I must do it—I’m not to 
dream, I’m to do—now I’m not to dream of 
ix 



PREFACE 


o 


o 


doing alone—I must come here—no, don’t come 
here—go there—all this in our England and all 
—for what? What do you, who are my friends, 
think it was all for? I believe it was all solely 
to ingratiate themselves with the man in the side 
street. 

But I was told it was so as to prevent me at all 
costs from getting a theatre of my own. 

I cannot believe that . . . but if that is all . . . if 
that be the whole fell purpose behind all the pro¬ 
paganda and misrepresentation, then it is merely 
rather ridiculous. For what harm could I possibly 
do to the great Dramatic Art of England if I had 
one poor theatre of my own, and my competitors 
had the other 502 theatres? 

Have they done such very great harm with the 
full count of the 503 theatres of our Isles?—well 
then, what could I do with one ? 

Supposing I were to do all the things I write of 
in this book. To begin with I couldn’t, but suppos¬ 
ing I could achieve a fair proportion of them, what 
would that lead to? 

At the worst it could only arouse a little more 
competition. Would that do good or harm, I 
wonder? What would you say? 

In brief, this book is the dream, is it not ? 

Why such an ado then, to prevent someone taking 
the next step to realize something of his dream ? 


E. G. C. 

Rapallo, 

IdU. 


} 


X 



CONTENTS a 


Preface .vii 

Introduction .xiii 

God Save the King .xv 

The Artists of the Theatre of the 

Future . 1 

The Actor and the tJBER-MARioNETTE . 54 

Some Evil Tendencies of the Modern 

Theatre. 95 

Plays and Playwrights . . . .112 

The Theatre in Russia, Germany, and 

England. 125 

The Art of the Theatre (1st Dialogue) 137 
The Art of the Theatre (2nd Dialogue) 182 
The Ghosts in the Tragedies of 


Shakespeare.264 

Shakespeare’s Plays . . . . .281 

Realism and the Actor .... 286 

Open-Air Theatres ..... 289 

Symbolism 293 

The Exquisite and The Precious . . 295 

xi 


































« 




































s. 


\ 








\ 



































ILLUSTRATIONS 

By EDWARD GORDON CRAIG 

SELECTED FROM HIS COLLECTION OF 
DESIGNS FOR STAGE SCENES AND COSTUMES 


To face p . 


Masque of London. Wapping Old Stairs 



{ Frontispiece ) 


Electra .... 

. 

xiv 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

A Dancer . 

32 

Julius Caesar 

. 

48 

Lantern Bearers 


80 

Julius Caesar. The Forum 

. 

104 

Hunger. The Servants 


112 

Macbeth .... 

. 

118 

Peer Gynt. Costume . 


124 

Hamlet. 

. 

136 

Venice Preserved 

. 

148 

Psyche . 

. 

176 

Romeo and Juliet 

. 

224 

Hunger. The Prologue . 

. 

262 

Macbeth. A Witch . 

. 

270 

Macbeth .... 


280 


xiii 























» 







* 






























a INTRODUCTION a 


I THINK Mr. Craig is the truest revolutionist I 
have ever known, because he demands a return 
to the most ancient traditions of which we can 
dream. Revolution and revelation are not far each 
from the other, and he gives us both. His torch, 
destined to set on fire our pseudo-Theatres, our mon¬ 
strous and barbarous play-houses, has been kindled 
at the sacred fires of the most ancient arts. He dis¬ 
covered for us that in a rope-dancer there may be 
more theatrical art than in an up-to-date actor 
reciting from his memory and depending on his 
prompter. I am sure all who are working on the 
stage throughout Europe, creative minds, or stage- 
managers priding themselves on their being creative 
minds, cannot be but most grateful to Mr. Craig, 
and must regard all that is and shall be done in his 
honour to be done in the vital interest of the very 
Art of the Theatre. 

For more than a hundred years there have been 
two men working on the stage, spoiling almost 
all that is to be called Theatrical Art. These two 
men are the Realist and the Machinist. The 
Realist offers imitation for life, and the Machinist 
tricks in place of marvels. So we have lost the 
truth and the marvel of life—that is, we have lost 
the main thing possessed by the art. The Art of 
the Theatre as pure imitation is nothing but an 
alarming demonstration of the abundance of life 
and the narrowness of Art. 

It is like the ancient example of the child who was 
trying to empty the sea with a shell, and, as for the 
wonderful tricks of the machinist, they may be 
marvellous, but they can never be a marvel. A 
flying machine is marvellous, but a bird is a marvel, 
b xv 



INTRODUCTION 


To the true Artist common life is a marvel and Art 
more abundant, more intense and more living than 
life itself. True Art is always discovering the 
marvel in all that does not seem to be marvellous 
at all, because Art is not imitation, but vision. 

That is the great discovery of Mr. Craig on the 
stage. He found the forgotten wonderland with 
the sleeping beauty, the land of our dreams and 
wishes, and has fought for it with the gestures of 
an artist, with the soul of a child, with the know¬ 
ledge of a student, and with the constancy of a 
lover. He has done the greatest service to the Art 
in which we are so profoundly interested, and it is 
a great happiness for us all that he comes off with 
flying colours. 

He has his admirers and followers in our little 
Hungary, the whole of the new generation being 
under his influence, and, without any disparage¬ 
ment to the great merit and good luck of Prof. 
Reinhardt, we Hungarians, as close neighbours and 
good observers, dare say that almost all that has 
been done in Berlin and Dusseldorf, in Munich or 
in Manheim for the last ten years is to be called 
the success of Mr. Craig. 

I am very sorry that I am not able to express 
all that I feel in a better style. But I am writing 
in a language which is not mine, and, living in a 
country cottage, far even from my English dic¬ 
tionaries, I am obliged to write it as I can, and not 
as I would. 

July 10, 1911. 

Dr. Alexander Hevesi, 

Dramaturg-Regisseur of the 

State Theatre, Budapest. 


XVI 



ELECTRA. SOPHOCLES 


A vast and forbidding doorway, 1 often think, still remains the 
best background for any tragedy—yet when 1 am told by the 
archaeologist, who enjoys himself in the dry and dusty days which 
are gone, that vastness and nobility of line are unimportant, and that 
a nice little wooden stage and some tasteful hangings about eight 
to ten feet high will serve, 1 am so ready to agree that I sometimes 
wonder whether these vast doors and open spaces, these shadows and 
these bursts of light are not out of place. 

Of course, it all depends whether you come to the theatre for drama 
or literature. 

if you come for drama, then let the whole thing live—not alone to 
the brain, but through the eye and the ear. 

If you come for a literary treat—best catch the first train home 
and own up to having made a blunder . 





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GOD SAVE THE KING 


“ It is meritorious to insist on forms. Religion and all else 
naturally clothes itself in forms. All substances clothe them¬ 
selves in forms; but there are suitable true forms, and then 
there are untrue unsuitable. As the briefest definition one 
might say. Forms which grow round a substance, if we rightly 
understand that, will correspond to the real Nature and purport 
of it, will be true, good ; forms which are consciously put round 
a substance, bad. I invite you to reflect on this. It distinguishes 
true from false in Ceremonial Form, earnest solemnity from 
empty pageant, in all human things.”— Carlyle. 


I SPEAK here as the Artist, and though all artists 
labour and most are poor, all are loyal, all are 
the worshippers of Royalty. 

If there is a thing in the world that I love it is a 
symbol. If there is a symbol of heaven that I can 
bend my knee to it is the sky, if there is a symbol of 
God, the Sun. As for the smaller things which I 
can touch I am not content to believe in them, as 
though they could ever be the thing. This I must 
always keep as something precious. All I ask is that 

I may be allowed to see it, and what I see must be 
superb. Therefore God save the King ! 

“ All Architecture is what you do to it when 
you look upon it.” * 1 So do we artists feel about 
Royalty, and see it more splendid and more noble 
than any others can ever see it. And if my King 
wanted to chop off my head I think I would submit 
cheerfully and dance to the block for the sake of 
preserving my ideal of Kingship. 

Kings have given us everything, and we in times 
gone by have in return made up the splendid pro¬ 
cession which follows in their wake. Kings have 
not stopped giving us everything, but we, alas, have 

1 Whitman. 

xvii 




GOD S A V E THE KIN G ! o 


lately given up forming the splendid processions. 
We have lost the trick of it because we are losing 
the old power of our eyes and our other senses. 
Our senses—those wonderful servants of ours over 
whom we reign as king—our senses have rebelled. 
So that it comes to this : that we on our part have 
lost our royalty. Our senses have had the vanity 
and the impertinence to revolt. This is infinitely 
disgusting. Our senses, if you please, are permit¬ 
ting themselves the luxury of becoming tired. 
They want another ruler than the Soul, and expect 
Jupiter to send them a better. We have pampered 
our intellect so much of late, have searched the 
archives of knowledge at so great an expense, 
that we have bargained our senses away to our 
unimaginative reason. 

It costs all this to become practical to-day; our 
imagination is the price we pay, a pretty penny 
indeed. It seems that in the Garden of Paradise, 
the world, there are as many trees of knowledge 
as there are men, so that it will no longer do 
to put our continual yearly “ fall ” down to 
woman, and we had surely better try to support 
her bitter laughter than that harsher scorn of the 
gods. 

And the gods are laughing 1 My God, so entirely 
peerless, laughs only with his eyes. He laughs on 
all the day, and I hear the echo of his laughter all 
the night. But I know how nobly all has been 
arranged in this Garden, for my God’s laughter is 
as the song of Paradise in my ears, and its pale 
echo soothes me to sleep through the night. 

And as surely as this bounteous laughter pours 
down on me by day and flows away from me by 
night, so will I find some way of giving thanks for 
xviii 



o GOB SAVE THE KING! o 


it all: thanksgiving to the joyous laughter and the 
Royal comfort that it brings. 

But to many ears this laughter of the Gods is 
like the shrieking of a storm, and these people raise 
their eyebrows, grumble, and pray that it will 
pass. 

But will it pass ? Will it not shriek in their ears 
until they be dead, until they have lost the sense of 
hearing ? 

Better would it be for these beings to value once 
more their most noble servants the senses, and 
attempt to perceive by their means the full meaning 
of the voice and of the face of God. And when they 
have understood that they will see the full meaning 
of the King. 

While I worship the sun I cannot listen to the 
talk which twaddles on about the tyranny of kings. 
The Sun is for me the greatest of tyrants; that, in 
fact, is part of my reason for loving the Sun. 

All truth, the truth of tyranny no less than the 
truth of slavery, is illumined by the Sun. From 
the marble columns of Mount Carrara to the wrinkle 
on the face of my nurse, all is laid bare for me and 
illumined by his light; nothing escapes the eye of 
God. He is a terrible God to those who fear to 
be burnt by him. From these he will “ breed 
maggots.” 

The Beautiful and the Terrible. Which is which 
will never be put into words. But I am free to tell 
myself; and, let me but preserve the senses—my 
eyes, my ears, my touch, and all shall be well—all 
shall seem far more beautiful than terrible. 

For not only do these servants of our Royalty 
help to idealize all things for us, but they also 
help to fix a limit to our vanity. By their help 
xix 



GOD S A V E THE KIN G ! o 


I recognize my God as he rises like the spirit of 
Imagination from the East and sails across the blue 
straits of heaven. 

If I had lost the sense of sight I should be unable 
to see this glory, and, not seeing it, I should demand 
other miracles from it than Happiness may expect. 
I should look for it to work some practical daily 
miracle in vain. Whereas, seeing this daily glory, 
this Sun, I know that the miracle comes and goes, 
that the miracle is just the passage of this symbol of 
the Divine, this seeming motion of the Sun from 
east to west. 

And that seeming motion of this God is enough 
for man to know. Mystic voices seem to cry, 
“ Seek to know no more ”; and we answer rebel - 
liously, “ I will be satisfied; deny me this and an 
eternal curse fall on ye.” 

“Show his eyes and grieve his heart. 

Come like shadows, so depart.” 

This seeking to know more—this desire of the 
brain—threatens to rob our senses of their vitality; 
our eyes may become dim till we shall no longer 
recognize the God before us, nor the King as he 
passes along our way. Our ears seem to be deaf; 
we begin not to hear the song of Paradise, we fail 
to pick up the chorus which follows in the wake of 
Royalty. Our touch, too, is growing coarse. The 
hem of the robes* brocade was once pleasant to 
our fingers’ touch; to touch the silken glove with 
our lips was once a privilege and a luxury. Now we 
have become the mob; ambition’s aim, oh noble 
consummation ! Afraid any longer to serve like 
noblemen, we must slave like thieves, having robbed 
ourselves of our greatest possession, our fine senses. 

XX 



GOB SAVE THE KING! o 


We are becoming veritable slaves chained together 
by circumstances, refusing daily to be released by 
our imagination, that only power which achieves 
true Freedom. 

But for me, I am a free man, by the grace of 
Royalty. Long live the King ! 

E. G. C. 


Florence , 1911. 


XXJ 




THE ARTISTS OF THE 
THEATRE OF THE FUTURE 


DEDICATED TO THE YOUNG RACE OF 
ATHLETIC WORKERS IN ALL THE THEATRES. 

SECOND THOUGHTS. I DEDICATE THIS TO 
THE SINGLE COURAGEOUS INDIVIDUALITY 
IN THE WORLD OF THE THEATRE WHO 
WILL SOME DAY MASTER AND REMOULD IT. 

T HEY say that second thoughts are best. They 
also say it is good to make the best of a bad job, 
and it is merely making the best of a bad job that 
I am forced to alter my first and more optimistic 
dedication to my second. Therefore the second 
thoughts are best. What a pity and what a pain 
to me that we should be obliged to admit it! No 
such race of athletic workers in the Theatre of to¬ 
day exists; degeneration, both physical and mental, 
is round us. How could it be otherwise ? Per¬ 
haps no surer sign of it can be pointed to than that 
all those whose work lies in the Theatre are to be 
continually heard announcing that all is well and 
that the Theatre is to-day at its highest point of 
development. 

But if all were well, no desire for a change would 
spring up instinctively and continually as it ever 
does in those who visit or ponder on the modern 
Theatre. It is because the Theatre is in this 

B 





DEDICATION 




<<s> 


wretched state that it becomes necessary that 
some one shall speak as I do; and then I look 
around me for those to whom I can speak and for 
those who will listen and, listening, understand; 
and I see nothing but backs turned towards me, 
the backs of a race of unathletic workers. Still 
the individual, the boy or man of personal courage, 
faces me. Him I see, and in him I see the force 
which shall create the race to come. Therefore to 
him I speak, and I am content that he alone shall 
understand me. It is the man who will, as Blake 
says, “ leave father, mother, houses and lands if 
they stand in the way of his art ”; * 1 it is the man 
who will give up personal ambition and the tem¬ 
porary success of the moment, he who will cease to 
desire an agreeable wealth of smooth guineas, but 
who shall demand as his reward nothing less than 
the restoration of his home, its liberty, its health, 
its power. It is to him I speak. 


Y OU are a young man; you have already been a 
few years in a theatre, or you have been born 
of theatrical parents; or you have been a painter for 
a while but have felt the longing towards move¬ 
ment ; or you have been a manufacturer. Perhaps 
you quarrelled with your parents when you were 
eighteen, because you wished to go on the stage, 

1 “Chang Fa-Shou, the liberal founder of this Temple, Wu 
SMng Ssu, was able, under the manifold net of a fivefold covering, 
to cut the bonds of family affection and worldly cares, etc . 11 — 
Engraved upon a stele a.d. 535 {China), now in the South 

Kensington Museum. 

2 




WANT TO FLY ’ 


and they would not let you. They perhaps asked 
why you wanted to go on the stage, and you could 
give no reasonable answer because you wanted to 
do that which no reasonable answer could explain; 
in other words, you wanted to fly. And had you 
said to your parents, “ I want to fly,” I think that 
you would have probably got further than had you 
alarmed them with the terrible words, “ I want to 
go on the stage.” 

Millions of such men have had the same desire, 
this desire for movement, this desire to fly, this 
desire to be merged in some other creature’s being, 
and not knowing that it was the desire to live in 
the imagination, some have answered their parents, 
“I want to be an actor; I want to go on the 
stage.” 

It is not that which they want; and the tragedy 
begins. I think when walking, disturbed with 
this newly awakened feeling, a young man will say, 
“ perhaps I want to be an actor ”; and it is only 
when in the presence of the irate parents that in 
his desperation he turns the “ perhaps ” into the 
definite “ I want.” 

This is probably your case. You want to fly; 
you want to exist in some other state, to be in¬ 
toxicated with the air, and to create this state in 
others. 

Try and get out of your head now that you really 
want “to go on the stage.” If, unfortunately, you 
are upon the stage, try and get out of your head 
then that you want to be an actor and that it is the 
b 2 3 



OBEDIENCE TO YOUR MASTER 


end of all your desires. Let us say that you are 
already an actor; you have been so for four or five 
years, and already some strange doubt has crept 
upon you. You will not admit it to any one; your 
parents would apparently seem to have been right; 
you will not admit it to yourself, for you have 
nothing else but this one thing to cheer yourself 
with. But I’m going to give you all sorts of things 
to cheer yourself with, and you may with courage 
and complete good spirits throw what you will to 
the winds and yet lose nothing of that which you 
stood up for in the beginning. You may remain on, 
yet be above the stage. 

I shall give you the value of my experience for 
what it is worth, and may be it will be of some use 
to you. I shall try to sift what is important for us 
from what is unimportant; and if while I am telling 
you all this you want any doubts cleared or any 
more exact explanations or details, you have only 
to ask me for them and I am ready to serve you. 

To begin with, you have accepted an engagement 
from the manager of the Theatre. You must serve 
him faithfully, not because he is paying you a salary, 
but because you are working under him. And with 
this obedience to your manager comes the first and 
the greatest temptation which you will encounter in 
your whole work. 

Because you must not merely obey his words 
but his wishes; and yet you must not lose yourself. 
I do not mean to say you must not lose your person¬ 
ality, because it is probable your personality has 
4 



OBEDIENCE TO NATUREo 


not come to its complete form. But you must not 
lose sight of that which you are in quest of, you 
must not lose the first feeling which possessed you 
when you seemed to yourself to be in movement 
with a sense of swinging upwards. 

While serving your apprenticeship under your 
first manager listen to all he has to say and all he 
can show you about the theatre, about acting, and 
go further for yourself and search out that which 
he does not show you. Go where they are painting 
the scenes; go where they are twisting the electric 
wires for the lamps; go beneath the stage and look 
at the elaborate constructions; go up over the 
stage and ask for information about the ropes and 
the wheels; but while you are learning all this about 
the Theatre and about acting be very careful to 
remember that outside the world of the Theatre 
you will find greater inspiration than inside it: I 
mean in nature. The other sources of inspiration 
are music and architecture. 

I tell you to do this because you will not have it 
told you by your manager. In the Theatre they 
study from the Theatre. They take the Theatre 
as their source of inspiration, and if at times some 
actors go to nature for assistance, it is to one part of 
nature only, to that which manifests itself in the 
human being. 

This was not so with Henry Irving, but I cannot 
stop here to tell you of him, for it would mean book 
upon book to put the thing clearly before you. But 
you can remember that as actor he was unfailingly 



HENRY IRVING o 


right, and that he studied all nature in order to 
find symbols for the expression of his thoughts. 

You will be probably told that this man, whom I 
hold up to you as a peerless actor, did such and such 
a thing in such and such a way; and you will doubt 
my counsel; but with all respect to your present 
manager you must be very careful how much 
credence you give to what he says and to what he 
shows, for it is upon such tradition that the Theatre 
has existed and has degenerated. 

What Henry Irving did is one thing; what they 
tell you he did is another. I have had some 
experience of this. I played in the same Theatre 
as Irving in Macbeth, and later on I had the oppor¬ 
tunity of playing Macbeth myself in a theatre in 
the north or the south of England. I was curious 
to know how much would strike a capable and 
reliable actor of the usual fifteen years’ experience, 
especially one who was an enthusiastic admirer of 
Henry Irving. I therefore asked him to be good 
enough to show me how Irving had treated this or 
that passage; what he had done and what impres¬ 
sion he had created, because it had slipped my 
memory. The competent actor thereupon revealed 
to my amazed intelligence something so banal, so 
clumsy, and so lacking in distinction, that I began 
to understand how much value was in tradition; 
and I have had several such experiences. 

I have been shown by a competent and worthy 
actress how Mrs. Siddons played Lady Macbeth. 

6 



INCORRECT TRADITIONS 


She would move to the centre of the stage and would 
begin to make certain movements and certain 
exclamations which she believed to be a repro¬ 
duction of what Mrs. Siddons had done. I presume 
she had received these from some one who had seen 
Mrs. Siddons. The things which she showed me 
were utterly worthless in so far as they had no 
unity, although one action here, another action 
there, would have some kind of reflected value; 
and so I began to see the uselessness of this kind of 
tuition; and it being my nature to rebel against 
those who would force upon me something which 
seemed to me unintelligent, I would have nothing 
to do with such teaching. 

I do not recommend you to do the same, although 
you will disregard what I say and do as I did if 
you have much of the volcano in you; but you will 
do better to listen, accept and adapt that which 
they tell you, remembering that this your apprentice¬ 
ship as actor is but the very beginning of an exceed¬ 
ingly long apprenticeship as craftsman in all the 
crafts which go to make up the art. 

When you have studied these thoroughly you will 
find some which are of value, and you will certainly 
find that the experience as actor has been necessary. 
The pioneer seldom finds an easy road, and as your 
way does not end in becoming a celebrated actor 
but is a much longer and an untrodden way leading 
to a very different end, you will have all the advan¬ 
tages and the disadvantages of pioneering; but 



o THE END IN VIEW o 


keep in mind what I have told you: that your aim 
is not to become a celebrated actor, it is not to be¬ 
come the manager of a so-called successful theatre; 
it is not to become the producer of elaborate and 
much-talked-of plays; it is to become an artist of 
the Theatre; and as a base to all this you must, as 
I have said, serve your term of apprenticeship as 
actor faithfully and well. If at the end of five years 
as actor you are convinced that you know what 
your future will be; if, in fact, you are succeeding, 
you may give yourself up for lost. Short cuts lead 
nowhere in this world. Did you think when the 
longing came upon you and when you told your 
family that you must go upon the stage that such 
a great longing was to be so soon satisfied ? Is satis¬ 
faction so small a thing ? Is desire a thing of nothing, 
that a five years’ quest can make a parody of it ? 
But of course not. Your whole life is not too long, 
and then only at the very end will some small atom 
of what you have desired come to you. And so you 
will be still young when you are full of years. 


ON THE ACTOR o 


As a man he ranks high, possesses generosity, 
and the truest sense of comradeship. I call to mind 
one actor whom I know and who shall stand as the 
type. A genial companion, and spreading a sense 
of companionship in the theatre; generous in 
giving assistance to younger and less accomplished 
8 





WHAT THE ACTOR KNOWS 


actors, continually speaking about the work, 
picturesque in his manner, able to hold his own 
when standing at the side of the stage instead of 
in the centre; with a voice which commands my 
attention when I hear it, and, finally, with about as 
much knowledge of the art as a cuckoo has of any¬ 
thing which is at all constructive. Anything to 
be made according to plan or design is foreign to 
his nature. But his good nature tells him that 
others are on the stage besides himself, and that 
there must be a certain feeling of unity between 
their thoughts and his, yet this arrives by a kind of 
good-natured instinct and not through knowledge, 
and produces nothing positive. Instinct and expe¬ 
rience have taught him a few things (I am not 
going to call them tricks), which he continually 
repeats. For instance, he has learned that the 
sudden drop in the voice from forte to piano has 
the power of accentuating and thrilling the audience 
as much as the crescendo from the piano into the 
forte. He also knows that laughter is capable of 
very many sounds, and not merely Ha, Ha, Ha. He 
knows that geniality is a rare thing on the stage 
and that the bubbling personality is always wel¬ 
comed. But what he does not know is this, that 
this same bubbling personality and all this same 
instinctive knowledge doubles or even trebles its 
power when guided by scientific knowledge, that 
is to say, by art. If he should hear me say this now 
he would be lost in amazement and would consider 
9 



THE CREATIVE POWER 


that I was saying something which was finicking, 
dry, and not at all for the consideration of an artist. 
He is one who thinks that emotion creates emotion, 
and hates anything to do with calculation. It is 
not necessary for me to point out that all art has 
to do with calculation, and that the man who dis¬ 
regards this can only be but half an actor. Nature 
will not alone supply all which goes to create a 
work of art, and it is not the privilege of trees, moun¬ 
tains and brooks to create works of art, or every¬ 
thing which they touch would be given a definite 
and beautiful form. It is the particular power 
which belongs to man alone, and to him through 
his intelligence and his will. My friend probably 
thinks that Shakespeare wrote Othello in a passion 
of jealousy and that all he had to do was to write 
the first words which came into his mouth; but 
I am of the opinion, and I think others hold the 
same opinion, that the words had to pass through 
our author’s head, and that it was just through this 
process and through the quality of his imagination 
and the strength and calmness of his brain that the 
richness of his nature was able to be entirely and 
clearly expressed, and by no other process could 
he have arrived at this. 

Therefore it follows that the actor who wishes to 
perform Othello, let us say, must have not only the 
rich nature from which to draw his wealth, but must 
also have the imagination to know what to bring 
forth, and the brain to know how to put it before 
10 



THE IDEAL ACTOR 

us. Therefore the ideal actor will be the man who 
possesses both a rich nature and a powerful brain. 
Of his nature we need not speak. It will contain 
everything. Of his brain we can say that the finer 
the quality the less liberty will it allow itself, re¬ 
membering how much depends upon its co-worker, 
the Emotion, and also the less liberty will it allow 
its fellow-worker, knowing how valuable to it is its 
sternest control. Finally, the intellect would bring 
both itself and the emotions to so fine a sense of 
reason that the work would never boil to the 
bubbling point with its restless exhibition of 
activity, but would create that perfect moderate 
heat which it would know how to keep temperate. 
The perfect actor would be he whose brain could 
conceive and could show us the perfect symbols of 
all which his nature contains. He would not ramp 
and rage up and down in Othello, rolling his eyes 
and clenching his hands in order to give us an im¬ 
pression of jealousy; he would tell his brain to 
inquire into the depths, to learn all that lies there, 
and then to remove itself to another sphere, the 
sphere of the imagination, and there fashion certain 
symbols which, without exhibiting the bare passions, 
would none the less tell us clearly about them. 

And the perfect actor who should do this would 
in time find out that the symbols are to be made 
mainly from material which lies outside his person. 
But I will speak to you fully about this when I get 
to the end of our talk. For then I shall show you 
11 



THE FACE OF HENRY IRVING 


that the actor as he is to-day must ultimately 
disappear and be merged in something else if works 
of art are to be seen in our kingdom of the Theatre. 1 

Meantime do not forget that the very nearest 
approach that has ever been to the ideal actor, with 
his brain commanding his nature, has been Henry 
Irving. There are many books which tell you 
about him, and the best of all the books is his face. 
Procure all the pictures, photographs, drawings, 
you can of him, and try to read what is there. To 
begin with you will find a mask, and the signifi¬ 
cance of this is most important. I think you will 
find it difficult to say when you look on the face, 
that it betrays the weaknesses which may have 
been in the nature. Try and conceive for yourself 
that face in movement—movement which was ever 
under the powerful control of the mind. Can you 
not see the mouth being made to move by the brain, 
and that same movement which is called expression 
creating a thought as definite as the line of a 
draughtsman does on a piece of paper or as a chord 
does in music ? Cannot you see the slow turning 
of those eyes and the enlargement of them ? These 
two movements alone contained so great a lesson 
for the future of the art of the theatre, pointed out 
so clearly the right use of expression as opposed to 
the wrong use, that it is amazing to me that many 
people have not seen more clearly what the future 
must be. I should say that the face of Irving was 
1 See The Actor and the Uber-Marionette, p. 54. 

12 



THE MASK AS THE MEDIUM 


the connecting link between that spasmodic and 
ridiculous expression of the human face as used by 
the theatres of the last few centuries, and the masks 
which will be used in place of the human face in the 
near future. 

Try and think of all this when losing hope that 
you will ever bring your nature as exhibited in your 
face and your person under sufficient command. 
Know for a truth that there is something other 
than your face and your person which you may 
use and which is easier to control. Know this, 
but make no attempt yet awhile to close with it. 
Continue to be an actor, continue to learn all that 
has to be learned, as to how they set about con¬ 
trolling the face, and then you will learn finally 
that it is not to be entirely controlled. 

I give you this hope so that when this moment 
arrives you will not do as the other actors have 
done. They have been met by this difficulty and 
have shirked it, have compromised, and have not 
dared to arrive at the conclusion which an artist 
must arrive at if faithful to himself. That is to say, 
that the mask is the only right medium of portray¬ 
ing the expressions of the soul as shown through the 
expressions of the face. 

ON THE STAGE-MANAGER ^ 


After you have been an actor you must become a 
stage-manager. Rather a misleading title this, 
13 





MASTER OF THE THEATRE 


for you will not be permitted to manage the stage. 
It is a peculiar position, and you can but benefit 
by the experience, though the experience will not 
bring either great delights to you or great results to 
the theatre in which you work. How well it sounds, 
this title, Stage-manager ! it indicates “ Master of 
the science of the stage.” 

Every theatre has a stage-manager, yet I fear 
there are no masters of the stage science. Perhaps 
already you are an under stage-manager. You will 
therefore remember the proud joy you felt when 
you were sent for, and, with some solemn words 
informed that your manager had decided to advance 
you to the position of stage-manager, and begged to 
remind you of the importance of the post, and of 
the additional one or two pennies that go with the 
situation. I suppose that you thought that the 
great and last wonderful day of your dream had 
arrived, and you held your head a little higher for 
a week, and looked down on the vast land which 
seemed to stretch out before you. 

But after then, what was it ? Am I not right 
in saying that it meant an early attendance at the 
theatre to see after the carpenters, and whether 
the nails had been ordered, and whether the cards 
were fixed to the doors of the dressing-rooms ? 
Am I not right in saying that you had to descend 
again to the stage and stand around waiting to see 
if things were done to time ? whether the scenery 
was brought in and hung up to time ? Did not 
14 



GENERAL UTILITY MAN TO-DAY 


the costumiere come tearfully to you saying that 
some one had taken a dress from its box and sub¬ 
stituted another ? Did you not request the 
costumiere to bring the offending party before 
you ? and did you not have to manage these two 
in some tactful way so as to offend neither of them, 
and yet so as to get at the truth of the matter ? 
And did you ever get at the truth of the matter ? 
And did these two go away nursing anything but a 
loathed hate towards you ? Put the best case, one 
of them liked you, and the other began to intrigue 
against you the next hour. Did you find yourself 
still on the stage at about half-past ten, and did 
not the actors arrive at that hour apparently in 
total ignorance that you had been there already 
four hours, and with their superb conviction that 
the doors of the theatre had just that moment been 
opened because they had arrived ? And did not at 
least six of these actors in the next quarter of an 
hour come up to you and with an “ I say, old chap,” 
or “ Look here, old fellow,” start asking you to 
arrange something for them on the stage so as to 
make their task a little easier ? And were not the 
things which they asked all so opposed one to the 
other, that to assist any one actor would have been 
to offend the other five ? Having told them that 
you would do your best, were you not relieved by 
the sudden appearance of the director of the 
theatre, generally the chief actor ? And did you 
not instantly go to him with the different requests 
15 



THE REHEARSAL 


which had been made to you, hoping that he, as 
master, would take the responsibility of arranging 
all these difficult matters ? And did he not reply 
to you, “ Don’t bother me with these details ; 
please do what you think best,” and did not you 
then instantly know in your heart that the whole 
thing was a farce—the title, the position, and 
all ? 

And then the rehearsal commenced. The first 
words are spoken; the first difficulty arrives. The 
play opens with a conversation between two gentle¬ 
men seated at a table. Having gone on for about 
five minutes, the director interrupts with a gentle 
question. He asks if he is not correct in saying 
that at yesterday’s rehearsal Mr. Brown rose at this 
or that line, twisting his chair back with a sudden 
movement ? The actor, a trifle distressed that he 
has been the cause of the first delay in the day’s 
proceedings, and yet not wishing to take any fault 
to himself, asks with equal courtesy, “ Are these the 
chairs which we are supposed to use on the night ? ” 
The director turns to the stage-manager, and asks 
him, “ Are these the chairs we use upon the night ? ” 
“ No, sir,” replies the stage-manager. A momen¬ 
tary look of disapproval, ever so slight, passes from 
the director, and is reflected upon the faces of the 
two actors, and a little restless wind passes round 
the theatre. It is the first little hitch. “ I think 
it would be best to use at rehearsal the chairs we 
are going to use on the night.” “ Certainly, sir ! ” 
16 



THE REHEARSAL 






The stage-manager claps his hands. “ Isherwood,” 
he cries. A thin, sad-looking little man, with a 
mask which is impenetrable on account of its 
extreme sadness, comes on to the stage and stands 
before the judgment seat. He hesitates. “ We 
shall use the chairs at rehearsal which have been 
ordered for this scene.” “ No chairs, sir, have been 
ordered for this scene.” The wind rises. A sharp 
flash of lightning shows itself on the face of the 
director, and a sudden frown of thunder hangs upon 
the brows of the actors. The stage-manager asks 
to see the property list, that is to say, the list of 
things used in the scene. Isherwood casts his eyes 
pathetically across the desert of the stage in search 
of the leading lady. Being the wife of the director, 
she has seen no reason for arriving in time. When 
she arrives she will have the look upon her face of 
having been concerned with more important busi¬ 
ness elsewhere. Isherwood replies, “ I had orders, 
sir, to put these two chairs in Scene II, as they are 
chairs with pink and red brocade.” Great moment 
for the director. Thunder-clap. “ Who gave you 
these orders ? ” “ Miss Jones.” [Miss Jones is 

the daughter of the leading lady, who is the wife of 
the director. Her position is not defined in the 
theatre, but she may be said to “ assist her 
mother.”] Hence the absence of the chairs. 
Hence the irritation of the entire company. Hence 
the waste of time in so many theatres, and hence 
the loss of the art. <s. 

c 


17 



WHY A GOOD EXPERIENCE 


This is but one and the first trial of the stage- 
manager, who rather plays the part of the tyre than 
the axle of the wheel of the stage. The rehearsal 
continues. The stage-manager has to be there all 
the time with but little control and permitted to 
hold few opinions, and yet all responsible for the 
errors; and after it is over, while the actors may 
retire to their luncheon, he must retire to the 
property room, the scene-painting room, the carpen¬ 
ters’ room—must hear all their grievances, must see 
everything being delayed; and when the company 
returns to the theatre fresh after a pause of an hour 
or so he is expected to be as fresh and as good- 
humoured without a break of a minute. This would 
be an easy and pleasant matter if he had the 
authority of his title; that is to say, if in his 
contract lay the words 46 entire and absolute control 
of the stage and all that is on the stage.” 

But it is none the less a good if a strange expe¬ 
rience. It teaches the man who assumes these 
terrible responsibilities how great a need there is 
for him to study the science of the stage, so that 
when it comes to his turn to be the director of the 
Theatre, he may dispense with the services of a 
so-called “ stage-manager ” by being the veritable 
stage-manager himself. 

You will do well, after having remained an actor 
for five years to assume these difficult responsi¬ 
bilities of stage-manager for a year or two, and never 
forget that it is a position capable of development. 

18 



THE IDEAL STAGE - M ANAGER 


About the ideal stage-manager I have written in 
my book, The Art of the Theatre , 1 and I have shown 
there that the nature of his position should make 
him the most important figure in the whole world 
of the Theatre. It should therefore be your aim 
to become such a man, one who is able to take a 
play and produce it himself, rehearsing the actors 
and conveying to them the requirements of each 
movement, each situation; designing the scenery 
and the costumes and explaining to those who are 
to make them the requirements of these scenes and 
costumes; and working with the manipulators of 
the artificial light, and conveying to them clearly 
what is required. 

Now, if I had nothing better to bring to you than 
these suggestions, if I had no further ideal, no 
further truth, to reveal to you about the Stage and 
about your future than this that I have told you of, 
I should consider that I had nothing to give you 
whatever and I should urge you to think no more 
of the Theatre. But I told you at the beginning of 
my letter that I was going to give you all sorts 
of things to cheer yourself with, so that you should 
have absolute faith in the greatness of the task 
which you set out to achieve; and here I remind 
you of this again lest you should think that this 
ideal manager of whom I speak is the ultimate 

1 This little book I have been able to rescue from a dungeon 
into which it had been thrown, and it is now free once more to 
roam the world under the protection of Mr. Heinemann. You 
will find it on p. 137 of this volume. 

C 2 19 



AND BEYOND 


>0 


achievement possible for you. It is not. Read 
what I have written about him in The Art of 
the Theatre, and let that suffice you for the time 
being; but rest perfectly sure that I have more, 
much more to follow, and that your hope shall be 
so high, that no other hope, not even that of the 
poets or the priests, shall be higher. 

To return to the duties of the stage-manager. I 
take it that I have already explained to you, or 
that you have already experienced, these ordinary 
difficulties, and that you have learned that great 
tact is required and no great talent. You have only 
to take care that in exercising this tact you do not 
become a little diplomatist, for a little diplomatist 
is a dangerous thing. Keep fresh your desire to 
emerge from that position, and your best way to 
do this is to study how to master the different 
materials which, later on, you will have to work in 
when your position is that of the ideal stage- 
manager. You will then possess your own Theatre, 
and what you place upon your stage will all be the 
work of your brain, much of it the work of your 
hands, and you must waste no time so as to be 
ready. 


ON SCENE AND MOVEMENT 


It is now time to tell you how I believe you 
may best become a designer of stage scenery and 
costumes, and how you may learn something about 
20 





THE STUDY OF THE PLAY 


the uses of artificial light; how you may bring the 
actors who work with you to work in harmony with 
each other, with the scene, and, most of all, with 
the ideas of the author. You have been studying, 
and will go on studying, the works which you wish 
to present. Let us here limit them to the four 
great tragedies by Shakespeare. You will know 
these so well by the time you begin to prepare them 
for the stage, and the preparation will take you a 
year or two for each play; you will have no more 
doubts as to what impression you want to create; 
your exercise will be to see how best you can create 
that impression. 

Let me tell you at the commencement that it 
is the large and sweeping impression produced by 
means of scene and the movement of the figures, 
which is undoubtedly the most valuable means at 
your disposal. I say this only after very many 
doubts and after much experience; and you must 
always bear in mind that it is from my experience 
that I speak, and that the best I can do is but to 
offer you that experience. Although you know that 
I have parted company with the popular belief that 
the written play is of any deep and lasting value to 
the Art of the Theatre, we are not going so far as 
to dispense with it here. We are to accept it that 
the play still retains some value for us, and we are 
not going to waste that; our aim is to increase it. 
Therefore it is, as I say, the production of general 
and broad effects appealing to the eye which will 
21 



‘ MACBETH ’ 






add a value to that which has already been made 
valuable by the great poet. 

First and foremost comes the scene. It is idle to 
talk about the distraction of scenery, because the 
question here is not how to create some distracting 
scenery, but rather how to create a place which 
harmonizes with the thoughts of the poet. 

Come now, we take Macbeth. We know the 
play well. In what kind of place is that play laid ? 
How does it look, first of all to our mind’s eye, 
secondly to our eye ? 

I see two things. I see a lofty and steep rock, 
and I see the moist cloud which envelops the head 
of this rock. That is to say, a place for fierce and 
warlike men to inhabit, a place for phantoms to 
nest in. Ultimately this moisture will destroy the 
rock; ultimately these spirits will destroy the men. 
Now then, you are quick in your question as to 
what actually to create for the eye. I answer as 
swiftly—place there a rock ! Let it mount up 
high. Swiftly I tell you, convey the idea of a mist 
which hugs the head of this rock. Now, have I 
departed at all for one eighth of an inch from the 
vision which I saw in the mind’s eye ? 

But you ask me what form this rock shall take 
and what colour ? What are the lines which are 
the lofty lines, and which are to be seen in any 
lofty cliff ? Go to them, glance but a moment at 
them; now quickly set them down on your paper; 
the lines and their direction , never mind the cliff. 

22 



THE COLOUR 

Do not be afraid to let them go high; they cannot 
go high enough; and remember that on a sheet of 
paper which is but two inches square you can make 
a line which seems to tower miles in the air, and you 
can do the same on your stage, for it is all a matter 
of proportion and nothing to do with actuality. 

You ask about the colours ? What are the 
colours that Shakespeare has indicated for us ? Do 
not first look at Nature, but look in the play of 
the poet. Two; one for the rock, the man; one 
for the mist, the spirit. Now, quickly, take and 
accept this statement from me. Touch not a 
single other colour, but only these two colours 
through your whole progress of designing your 
scene and you!* costumes, yet forget not that each 
colour contains many variations. If you are timid 
for a moment and mistrust yourself or what I tell, 
when the scene is finished you will not see with your 
eye the effect you have seen with your mind’s eye, 
when looking at the picture which Shakespeare has 
indicated. 

It is this lack of courage, lack of faith in the value 
which lies in limitation and in proportion which is 
the undoing of all the good ideas which are born 
in the minds of the scene designers. They wish 
to make twenty statements at once. They wish to 
tell us not only of the lofty crag and the mist which 
clings to it; they wish to tell you of the moss of the 
Highlands and of the particular rain which descends 
in the month of August. They cannot resist 
23 



PRACTISE AND LOSE NO TIME 


showing that they know the form of the ferns of 
Scotland, and that their archaeological research has 
been thorough in all matters relating to the castles 
of Glamis and Cawdor. And so in their attempt to 
tell us these many facts, they tell us nothing; all 
is confusion: 

“ Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope 
The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence 
The life o’ the building.” 

So, do as I tell you. Practise with the pencil 
on paper both on a small scale and on a large scale; 
practise with colour on canvas; so that you may 
see for yourself that what I say to you is true—and, 
if you are an Englishman, make haste : for if you 
do not others who read this in other countries will 
find in it technical truths and will outstrip you 
before you are aware of it. But the rock and its 
cloud of mist is not all that you have to consider. 
You have to consider that at the base of this rock 
swarm the clans of strange earthly forces, and that 
in the mist hover the spirits innumerable; to 
speak more technically, you have to think of the 
sixty or seventy actors whose movements have to 
be made at the base of the scene, and of the other 
figures which obviously may not be suspended on 
wires, and yet must be seen to be clearly separate 
from the human and more material beings. 

It is obvious then that some curious sense of a 
dividing line must be created somewhere upon the 
stage so that the beholder, even if he look but with 
24 



A TECHNICAL EXPLAN AT ION 


his corporal eye, shall be convinced that the two 
things are separate things. I will tell you how to 
do this. Line and proportion having suggested the 
material rock-like substance, tone and colour (one 
colour) will have given the ethereal to the mist-like 
vacuum. Now then, you bring this tone and 
colour downwards until it reaches nearly to the 
level of the floor; but you must be careful to bring 
this colour and this tone down in some place which 
is removed from the material rock-like substance. 

You ask me to explain technically what I mean. 
Let your rock possess but half the width of the 
stage, let it be the $ide of a cliff round which many 
paths twist, and let these paths mingle in one flat 
space taking up half or perhaps three quarters of 
the stage. You have room enough there for all 
your men and women. Now then, open your stage 
and all other parts. Let there be a void below as 
well as above, and in this void let your mist fall and 
fade; and from that bring the figures which you 
have fashioned and which are to stand for the 
spirits. I know you are yet not quite comfortable 
in your mind about this rock and this mist; I know 
that you have got in the back of your head the 
recollection that a little later on in the play come 
several “ interiors ” as they are called. But, bless 
your heart, don’t bother about that! Call to mind 
that the interior of a castle is made from the stuff 
which is taken from the quarries. Is it not 
precisely the same colour to begin with ? and do 



A TECHNICAL EXPLANATION 


not the blows of the axes which hew out the great 
stones give a texture to each stone which resembles 
the texture given it by natural means, as rain, 
lightning, frost ? So you will not have to change 
your mind or change your impression as you 
proceed. You will have but to give variations of 
the same theme, the rock—the brown; the mist— 
the grey; and by these means you will, wonder of 
wonders, actually have preserved unity. Your 
success will depend upon your capacity to make 
variations upon these two themes; but remember 
never to let go of the main theme of the play 
when searching for variations in the scene. 

By means of your scene you will be able to mould 
the movements of the actors, and you must be able 
to increase the impression of your numbers without 
actually adding another man to your forty or fifty. 
You must not, therefore, waste a single man, nor 
place him in such a position that an inch of him is 
lost. Therefore the place on which he walks must 
be the most carefully studied parts of the whole 
scene. But in telling you not to waste an inch of 
him I do not therefore mean to convey that you 
must show every inch of him. It is needless to say 
more on this point. By means of suggestion you 
may bring on the stage a sense of all things—the 
rain, the sun, the wind, the snow, the hail, the 
intense heat—but you will never bring them there 
by attempting to wrestle and close with Nature, in 
order so that you may seize some of her treasure 
26 



A TECHNICAL EXPLANATION 


and lay it before the eyes of the multitude. By 
means of suggestion in movement you may trans¬ 
late all the passions and the thoughts of vast 
numbers of people, or by means of the same you 
can assist your actor to convey the thoughts and 
the emotions of the particular character he im¬ 
personates. Actuality, accuracy of detail, is useless 
upon the stage. 

Do you want further directions as to how to 
become a designer of scenes and how to make them 
beautiful, and, let us add for the sake of the cause, 
practical and inexpensive ? I am afraid that if I 
were to commit"my method to writing I should 
write something down which would prove not so 
much useless as bad. For it might be very danger¬ 
ous for many people to imitate my method. It 
would be a different thing if you could study with 
me, practising what we speak about for a few years. 
Your nature would in time learn to reject that 
which was unsuited to it, and, by a daily and a much 
slower initiation, only the more important and 
valuable parts of my teaching would last. But I 
can give you now some more general ideas of things 
which you might do with advantage and things 
which you may leave undone. For instance, to 
begin with, don’t worry—particularly don’t worry 
your brain, and for Heaven’s sake don’t think it is 
important that you have got to do something, 
especially something clever. 

I call to mind the amount of trouble I had when 
27 



MY EARLY EXPERIENCE 


I was a boy of twenty-one over the struggle to 
somehow produce designs traditional in character 
without feeling at all in sympathy with the tradi¬ 
tion; and I count it as so much wasted time. I 
do not hold with others that it was of any value 
whatever. I remember making designs for scenes 
for Henry IV. I was working under an actor- 
manager at the time. I was working in a theatre 
where the chairs and the tables and other matters 
of detail played over-important and photographic 
parts, and, not knowing any better, I had to take 
all this as a good example. The play of Henry IV, 
therefore, consisted to my mind of one excellent 
part, Prince Hal, and thirty or forty other characters 
that trotted round this part. There was the usual 
table with the chairs round it on the right side. 
There at the back was the usual door, and I thought 
it rather unique and daring at the time to place this 
door a little bit off the straight. There was the 
window with the latches and the bolts and the 
curtains ruffled up to look as if they had been used 
for some time, and outside the glimpses of English 
landscape. There were the great flagons; and, 
of course, on the curtain rising there was to be a 
great cluster and fluster of “ scurvy knaves,” who 
ran in and out, and a noise of jovial drinkers in the 
next room. There was the little piece of jovial 
music to take up the curtain, that swinging jig 
tune which we have all grown so familiar with, 
there were the three girls who pass at the back of 
28 



o WOXJLD-BE IMITATORS o 


the window, laughing. One pops her head in at the 
window with a laugh and a word to the potman. 
Then there is the dwindling of the laughter and the 
sinking to piano of the orchestra as the first speaking 
character enters, and so on. 

My whole work of that time was based on these 
stupid restless details which I had been led to 
suppose a production could be made from; and it 
was only when I banished the whole of this from 
my thoughts, and no longer permitted myself to see 
with the eyes of the producers of the period of 
Charles Kean, that I began to find anything fresh 
which might be of value to the play. And so for 
me to tell you how to make your scenes is well-nigh 
impossible. It would lead you into terrible blun¬ 
ders. I have seen some of the scenery which is 
supposed to be produced according to my teaching, 
and it is utter rubbish. 

I let my scenes grow out of not merely the play, 
but from broad sweeps of thought which the play 
has conjured up in me, or even other plays by the 
same author have conjured up. For instance, the 
relation of Hamlet to Macbeth is quite close, and 
the one play may influence the other. I have been 
asked so many times, by people eager to make a 
little swift success or a little money, to explain to 
them carefully how I make my scenes; because, 
said they, with sweet simplicity, “ then I could make 
some too.” You will hardly believe it, but the 
strangest of people have said this to me, and if I 



WOULD-BE IMITATORS o 


could be of service to them without being treacher¬ 
ous to myself as an artist, and to the art, I would 
always do so. But you see how vain that would be I 
To tell them in five minutes or in five hours or even 
in a day how to do a thing which it has taken me 
a lifetime to begin to do would be utterly impossible. 
And yet when I have been unable to bring myself to 
tear my knowledge up into little shreds and give it 
to these people they have been most indignant, at 
times malignant. 

And so you see it is not that I am unwilling to 
explain to you the size and shape of my back-cloths, 
the colour which is put upon them, the pieces of 
wood that are not to be attached to them, the way 
they are to be handled, the lights that are to be 
thrown upon them, and how and why I do every¬ 
thing else; it is only that if I were to tell you, 
though it might be of some service to you for the 
next two or three years, and you could produce 
several plays with enough “effects” therein to 
satisfy the curiosity of quite a number of people, 
though you would benefit to this extent you would 
lose to a far greater extent, and the art would have 
in me its most treacherous minister. We are not con¬ 
cerned with short cuts. We are not concerned with 
what is to be “ effective ” and what is to pay. We 
are concerned with the heart of this thing, and with 
loving and understanding it. Therefore approach 
it from all sides, surround it, and do not let yourself 
be attracted away by the idea of scene as an end 
SO 



THE PREPARATION OF A PLAY 


in itself, of costume as an end in itself, or of stage 
management or any of these things, and never lose 
hold of your determination to win through to the 
secret—the secret which lies in the creation of 
another beauty, and then all will be well. 

In preparing a play, while your mind is thinking 
of scene, let it instantly leap round and consider 
the acting, movement and voice. Decide nothing 
yet, instantly leap back to another thought about 
another part of this unit. Consider the movement 
robbed of all scene, all costume, merely as move¬ 
ment. Somehow mix the movement of the person 
with the movement which you see in your mind’s 
eye in the scene. Now pour all your colour upon 
this. Now wash away all the colour. Now begin 
over again. Consider only the words. Wind 
them in and out of some vast and impossible 
picture, and now make that picture possible 
through the words. Do you see at all what I mean? 
Look at the thing from every standpoint and 
through every medium, and do not hasten to begin 
your work until one medium force you to com¬ 
mence. You can far sooner trust other influences 
to move your will and even your hand than you can 
trust your own little human brain. This may not 
be the methodical teachings of the school. The 
results they achieve are on record, and the record 
is nothing to boast about. Hard, matter-of-fact, 
mechanical teaching may be very good for a class, 
but it is not much good for the individual; and 
31 



TEE COST V ME BOOKS 


when I come to teach a class I shall not teach them 
so much by words as by practical demonstration. 

By the way, I may tell you one or two things 
that you will find good not to do. For instance, do 
not trouble about the costume books. When in a 
great difficulty refer to one in order to see how 
little it will help you out of your difficulty, but 
your best plan is never to let yourself become com¬ 
plicated with these things. Remain clear and fresh* 
If you study how to draw a figure, how to put on it 
a jacket, coverings for the legs, covering for the 
head, and try to vary these coverings in all kinds 
of interesting, amusing, or beautiful ways, you will 
get much further than if you feast your eyes and 
confound your brain with Racinet, Planchet, 
Hottenroth and the others. The coloured costumes 
are the worst, and you must take great care with 
these and be utterly independent when you come 
to think about what you have been looking at. 
Doubt and mistrust them thoroughly. If you find 
afterwards that they contain many good things 
you will not be so far wrong; but if you accept 
them straight away your whole thought and sense 
for designing a costume will be lost; you will be 
able to design a Racinet costume or a Planchet 
costume, and you will lean far too much on these 
historically accurate men who are at the same time 
historically untrue. 

Better than these that I have mentioned is 
Viollet le Due. He has much love for the little 
32 






MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 
A Dancer. 

“Charming costume, that” I hear some actor-manager say; 
‘‘quite charming—so original, too — it's a pity it's impossible to 
make it. My wardrobe mistress tells me she couldn't make that 
because it's not clear” 

This is typical of the withering praise such a design is met with 
when an anxious actor^manager catches sight of it. It is the habit 
for some of them—one of them, I had almost written—to damn 
everything outside his own theatre as impossible, and in such a. 
pathetic way, too. “ You are not going to tell me that you seriously 
consider that is good ” he asks of his visitor, and he adds, “I like 
mine much better” —“mine ” is some little invention of one of his 
servants, for the great man never indulges himself that way. 

This costume design was carried out to perfection. One is obliged 
to state these things because of the story-tellers! 




T 5 / £ C 0 S T 


wht ; ; come to teach a c 1 shall not teacft went 
sc 'frjcb by words as b\ metical deraGfistrat’o? 

)5y the wav, I may N von one or two things 
,'ivvt you will find good ••• > do. .<•-orinstance, do 

ot trouble about the < ooks* 1 - i in «« 

fcuoSjfC set **ow 

it will h< . ■ *v y.«'i / 



\ >5 ■ '>-ov\■.-•.$ V& ySnK\ ' — ■. <••'> .kwv$$ho oss—^imoMrsSh^*‘ 

rfow ijU'h < ^ .afc r a«t. aSVrt amjairo s^ vb's! ^V- 

".■tosh Vvf /.'ii 9 ssw®3^6 

Sr&Sra V^wuv pms'Sra as\$ \o ko>q\0 a twy 

ndsii ! *$ A^y.xt^o i 8 t^y&Ab&& Mfxftfas 

?• 

'■'vlauoiiee uoy. i»A5 am Wai oSj^svi-o^ toit a\» woH ** . .ooSj^.njjj, 
yXs\ V* art force |4o5i?.foi ssVrt \o $$§© art M ,fooo\> aj 
shV\o arco\o rco«4w&&AV afoVsl a mo?. ?,i "snirri n —'Hattafl AaftsWWnrc 
.ywrc lorti \W.suCvsl fca^WWvs -mairc «\ oAJ to\ ^sVmhfca 
-^avi'^do ssi a^O .woiVoa^aaj o$ Uso foamwv sow aj(»vtejK>«V&V 

^%i5sS-^*voi& aAS \o aauepad prciA* a>-.aAS aU^«, oi 














V IOLLET LE DU C 




truths which underlie costume, and is very faithful 
in his attitude; but even his is more a book for the 
historical novelist, and one has yet to be written 
about imaginative costume. Keep continually 
designing such imaginative costumes. For ex¬ 
ample, make a barbaric costume; and a barbaric 
costume for a sly man which has nothing about it 
which can be said to be historical and yet is both 
sly and barbaric. Now make another design for 
another barbaric costume, for a man who is bold 
and tender. Now make a third for one who is ugly 
and vindictive. It will be an exercise. You will 
probably make blunders at first, for it is no easy 
thing to do, but I promise you if you persevere long 
enough you will be able to do it. Then go further; 
attempt to design the clothing for a divine figure 
and for a demonic figure : these of course will be 
studies in individual costumes, but the main 
strength of this branch of the work lies in the 
costume as mass. It is the mistake of all theatrical 
producers that they consider the costumes of the 
mass individually. 

It is the same when they come to consider move¬ 
ments, the movements of masses on the stage. You 
must be careful not to follow the custom. We 
often hear it said that each member of the Meiningen 
Company composing the great crowd in Julius 
Caesar was acting a special part of his own. This 
may be very exciting as a curiosity, and attractive 
to a rather foolish audience, who would naturally 
D 33 



THE MOVEMENTS OF MASSES 


say: “ Oh, how interesting to go and look at one 
particular man in a corner who is acting a little part 
of his own ! How wonderful ! It is exactly like 
life ! ” And if that is the standard and if that is 
our aim, well and good. 

But we know that it is not. Masses must be 
treated as masses, as Rembrandt treats a mass, as 
Bach and Beethoven treat a mass, and detail has 
nothing to do with the mass. Detail is very well 
in itself and in its place. You do not make an 
impression of mass by crowding a quantity of 
details together. Detail is made to form mass only 
by those people who love the elaborate, and it is a 
much easier thing to crowd a quantity of details 
together than it is to create a mass which shall 
possess beauty and interest. On the stage they 
instantly turn to the natural when they wish to 
create this elaborate structure. A hundred men 
to compose a crowd, or, let us say, all Rome, as in 
Julius Caesar ; a hundred men, and each is told to 
act his little part. Each acts himself, giving vent 
to his own cries; each a different cry, though many 
of them copy the most effective ones, so that by the 
end of the first twenty nights they are all giving out 
the same cry. And each of them has his own action, 
which after the first twenty nights is exchanged for 
the most effective and popular action; and by this 
means a fairly decent crowd of men with waving 
arms and shouting voices may be composed, and 
may give some people the impression of a vast 
34 



THE ‘ NATURALISTIC ’ IN MOVEMENT 


crowd. To others it gives the impression of a 
crush at a railway station. 

Avoid all this sort of thing. Avoid the so-called 
44 naturalistic ” in movement as well as in scene 
and costume. The naturalistic stepped in on the 
Stage because the artificial had grown finicking, 
insipid; but do not forget that there is such a thing 
as noble artificiality. 

Some one writing about natural movement and 
gesture says : 46 Wagner had long put in practice the 
system of natural stage action tried of late years 
at the Th6atre Libre in Paris by a French comedian; 
a system which, most happily, tends more and more 
to be generally adopted.” It is to prevent such 
things being written that you exist. 

This tendency towards the natural has nothing 
to do with art, and is abhorrent when it shows in 
art, even as artificiality is abhorrent when we meet 
it in everyday life. We must understand that the 
two things are divided, and we must keep each 
thing in its place; we cannot expect to rid ourselves 
in a moment of this tendency to be 46 natural ”; to 
make 44 natural ” scenes, and speak in a 44 natural ” 
voice, but we can fight against it best by studying 
the other arts. 

Therefore we have to put the idea of natural or 
unnatural action out of our heads altogether, and 
in place of it we have to consider necessary or 
unnecessary action. The necessary action at a 
certain moment may be said to be the natural 
D 2 35 



NATURAL ACTION NOT ALWAYS RIGHT 


action for that moment; and if that is what is 
meant by “ natural,” well and good. In so far 
as it is right it is natural, but we must not get 
into our heads that every haphazard natural 
action is right. In fact, there is hardly any action 
which is right, there is hardly any which is natural. 
Action is a way of spoiling something, says 
Rimbaud. 

And to train a company of actors to show upon 
the stage the actions which are seen in every 
drawing-room, club, public-house or garret must 
seem to every one nothing less than tomfoolery. 
That companies are so trained is well known, but 
it remains almost incredible in its childishness. 
Just as I told you to invent costume which was 
significant, so must you invent a series of significant 
actions, still keeping in mind the great division 
which exists between action in the mass and action 
in the individual, and remembering that no action 
is better than little action. 

I have told you to make designs for three 
costumes of a barbaric period, each particularized 
by some special character. Give action to these 
figures which you have made. Create for them 
significant actions, limiting yourself to those three 
texts that I have given you, the sly, the bold tender¬ 
ness, the ugly and vindictive. Make studies for 
these, carry your little book or pieces of paper with 
you and continually be inventing with your pencil 
little hints of forms and faces stamped with these 
36 



THE WORD ‘BEAUTIFUL' AND — 


three impressions; and when you have collected 
dozens of them select the most beautiful. 

And now for a word on this. I particularly did 
not say the most “ effective,” although I used the 
word “ beautiful ” as the artists use it, not as those 
of the stage use it. 

I cannot be expected to explain to you all that 
the artist means by the word beautiful; but to him 
it is something which has the most balance about it, 
the justest thing, that which rings a complete and 
perfect bell note. Not the pretty, not the smooth, 
not the superb always, and not always the 
rich, seldom the “ effective ” as we know it in 
the Theatre, although at times that, too, is the 
beautiful. But Beauty is so vast a thing, and 
contains nearly all other things—contains even 
ugliness, which sometimes ceases to be what is 
held as ugliness, and contains harsh things, but 
never incomplete things. 

Once let the meaning of this word Beauty 
begin to be thoroughly felt once more in the 
Theatre, and we may say that the awakening day 
of the Theatre is near. Once let the word effec¬ 
tive be wiped off our lips, and they will be ready 
to speak this word Beauty. When we speak about 
the effective, we in the Theatre mean something 
which will reach across the foot lights. The old 
actor tells the young actor to raise his voice, to 
“ Spit it out ”—“ Spit it out, laddie; fling it at the 
back of the gallery.” Not bad advice either; but 
37 



— THE WORD ‘EFFECTIVE' 


to think that this has not been learnt in the last 
five or six hundred years, and that we have not 
got further ; that is what is so distressing about the 
whole business. Obviously all stage actions and 
all stage words must first of all be clearly seen, 
must be clearly heard. Naturally all pointed 
actions and all pointed speeches must have a clear 
and distinct form so that they may be clearly 
understood. We grant all this. It is the same in 
all art, and as with the other arts it goes without 
saying; but it is not the one and only essential 
thing which the elders must be continually drum¬ 
ming into the ears of the younger generation when 
it steps upon the stage. It teaches the young actor 
soon to become a master of tricks. He takes the 
short cut instinctively to these tricks, and this 
playing of tricks has been the cause of the invention 
of a word— 44 Theatrical,” and I can put my finger 
on the reason why the young actor labours under 
this disadvantage the moment he begins his stage 
experience. It is because previous to his experience 
he has passed no time as student or as apprentice. 

I do not know that I am such a great believer 
in the schools. I believe very much indeed in the 
general school which the world has to offer us, but 
there is this great difference between the 44 world ” 
schooling of the actor and the 44 world ” schooling 
of the other artists who do not go to the academies 
either. A young painter, or a young musician, a 
young poet, or a young architect, or a young 



TEE FIRE OF CRITICISM — 


sculptor may never enter an academy during his 
life, and may have ten years’ knocking about in the 
world—learning here, learning there, experimenting 
and labouring unseen and his experiments un¬ 
noticed. The young actor may not enter an 
academy either, and he may also knock about in 
the world, and he too may experiment just the same 
as the others, but—and here is the vast difference— 
all his experiments he must make in front of a public. 
Every little atom of his work from the first day of 
his commencing until the last day of his apprentice¬ 
ship must be seen, and must come under the fire 
of criticism. I shall ever be beholden to the higher 
criticism, and for a man of ten years’ experience at 
any work to come under the fire of criticism will 
benefit him and his work a thousandfold. He has 
prepared himself; he has strength; he knows what 
he is going to face. But for every boy and girl 
to be subjected to this the first year that they timidly 
attempt this enormous task is not only unfair on them 
but is disastrous to the art of the stage. 

Let us picture ourselves as totally new to this 
work. We are on fire with the desire to begin our 
work. Willingly and with an enormous courage 
we accept some small part. It is eight lines, and we 
appear for ten minutes. We are delighted, although 
almost in a panic. Say it is twenty lines. Do you 
think we say no ? We are to appear six times, do 
you think we shall run away ? We may not be 
angels, but we are certainly not fools for stepping 
39 



—AND THE RES V LT 




in. It appears to us heaven. On we go. Next 
morning: “It is a pity that the manager elected 
an incompetent young man to fill so important a 
part.” 

I am not blaming the critic for writing this; I 
am not saying that it will kill a great artist or that 
it will break our heart; I only say that this seems 
so unfair that it is only natural that we retaliate 
by taking an unfair advantage of the very art which 
we have commenced to love , by becoming effective at 
all costs. We have received this criticism; we 
have done our best; the others have received good 
criticism; we can stand it no longer; we do as 
they do, we become effective. It takes most young 
actors but five years’ acute suffering to become 
effective, to become theatrical. Too early criticism 
breaks the young actor who would be an artist as 
far as possible, and causes him to be a traitor to the 
art which he loves. Beware of this and rather be 
ineffective. Receive your bad criticism with a good 
grace and with the knowledge that with patience 
and with pride you can outlive and out-distance all 
around you. It is right that the critic should say 
that you were ineffective at a certain moment, or 
that you played your part badly, if you have been 
but three, four or five years on the stage, and if you 
are but still feeling your way slowly, instead of 
rushing to tricks for support. It is quite right of 
them to say that, for they are speaking the entire 
truth—you should be glad of this; but uncon- 
40 



THE CRITIC’S ATTITUDE 


sciously they disclose a still greater truth. It is 
this—that the better the artist the worse the actor. 

So take entire courage. Continue, as I have said 
at the beginning, to remain an actor until you can 
stand it no longer, until you feel you are on the 
point of giving way; then leap nimbly aside into 
the position of stage-manager. And here, as I have 
pointed out, you will be in a better position, if not 
a much better position, for are you approaching the 
point at which stands (slumbering, it is true) the 
muse of the theatre. 1 Your most effective scenes, 
productions, costumes and the rest, will of course 
be the most theatrical ones. But here tradition 
is not so strong, and it is here that you will find 
something that you can rely on. 

The critic is not more lenient towards the pro¬ 
ducer of plays, but somehow or other he is less 
inclined to use the word “ effective.” He seems to 
have a wider knowledge of the beauty or the ugliness 
of these things. It may be that the tradition of 
his art permits him this; for “ production,” as it is 
understood nowadays, is but a more modern de¬ 
velopment of the Theatre, and the critic has more 
liberty to say what he wishes. At any rate, when 
you become stage-manager, you will no longer have 
to appear each evening upon the stage in person, 
and therefore anything which is written about your 
work you cannot take as a personal criticism. 

I thought to tell you here something about the 
uses of artificial light; but apply what I have said 
41 



THE LAST ADVICE OF ALL 


of scene and costume to this other branch as well. 
Some of it may apply. To tell you of the instru¬ 
ments which they use, how they use them so as to 
produce beautiful results, is not quite practical. 
If you have the wit to invent the scenes and the 
costumes that I have spoken about, you will soon 
have the wit to find your own way of using the 
artificial light we are given in the Theatre. 

Finally, before we pass out of the Theatre on to 
other more serious matters, let me give you the last 
advice of all. When in doubt listen to the advice 
of a man in a theatre, even if he is only a dresser, 
rather than pay any attention to the amateur. 
A few painters, a few writers, and a few musicians, 
have used our Theatre as a kind of after-thought. 

Take care to pay no attention to what they say 
or what they do. An ordinary stage hand knows 
more about our art than these amateurs. The 
painter has lately been making quite a pretty little 
raid upon the outskirts of the stage. He is very 
often a man of much intellectual ability and full of 
very many excellent theories, the old and beautiful 
theory of art which each in his own piece of soil 
knows how to cultivate best; and these theories 
he has exemplified in his own particular branch of 
art so well. In the Theatre they become sheer 
affectation. It is reasonable to suppose that a man 
who has spent fifteen to twenty years of his life 
painting in oils on a flat surface, etching on copper, 
or engraving on wood will produce something which 
42 



DON’T LISTEN TO AM AT EU RS 


is pictorial and has the qualities of the pictorial but 
nothing else. And so with the musician; he will 
produce something which is musical. So with the 
poet; he will produce something which is literary. 
It will all be very picturesque and pretty, but it will 
unfortunately be nothing to do with the Art of the 
Theatre. Beware of such men; you can do without 
them. If you have anything to do with them you 
will end by being an amateur yourself. If one 
of these should wishd;o talk with you about the 
Theatre be careful to ask him how long he has 
actually worked in a Theatre before you waste any 
more time listening to his unpractical theories. 

And as the last but one word was about these men, 
so the last word of all shall be about their work. 
Their work is so fine, they have found such good 
laws and have followed these laws so well, have given 
up all their worldly hopes in this one great search 
after beauty, that when Nature seems to be too 
difficult to understand, go straight to these fellows, 
I mean to their work, and it will help you out of 
all the difficulties, for their works are the best and 
the wisest works in the world. 


^ THE FUTURE. A HOPE 


And now I intend to carry you on beyond this 
stage management about which I have spoken, 
and unveil to you some greater possibilities which 
I think are in store for you. 

43 





AND NOW ‘ BEYOND ’ ^ 

I have come to the end of talking with you about 
matters as they are, and I hope you will pass through 
those years as actor, manager, designer and pro¬ 
ducer without any very great disturbances. To do 
this successfully, although in your apprenticeship 
you must hold your own opinion, you must hold it 
very closely to yourself; and above all things re¬ 
member that I do not expect you to hold my opinion 
or to stand up for it publicly. To do that would be 
to weaken your position and to weaken the value of 
this preparation time. It is of no value to me that 
people should be convinced of your belief in the 
truth of my statements, theories or practices : it 
is of great value to me that you should be so con¬ 
vinced. And so as to let nothing stand in the way 
of that I would have you run no risks, but keep our 
convictions to ourselves. Try to win no support 
for me. Run no risk of being faced with the 
dismissal from your post with the option of the 
denial of our mutual beliefs. Besides, there is no 
need for either of these two alternatives. I have 
taken so large a share of the rebuffs by loudly 
proclaiming my beliefs in the cause of the truth of 
this work, and am always prepared to take more if 
you will but leap forwards and secure the advan¬ 
tages, using me as the stalking-horse. I shall 
appreciate the fun, for there is a spice of fun in it 
all, and that will be my reward. Remember we 
are attacking a monster; a very powerful and 
subtle enemy; and when you signal to me let 
44 



o AND NOW ‘ BEYOND ’ ex¬ 
it be by that more secret means even than 
wireless telegraphy. I shall understand the com¬ 
munication. 

When you have finished your apprenticeship, 
six to ten years, there will be no need to use further 
concealment: you will then be fitted to step out 
and, in your turn, unfurl your banner, for you will 
be upon the frontier of your kingdom, and about 
this kingdom I will speak now. 

I use the word “ Kingdom ” instinctively in 
speaking of the land^of the Theatre. It explains 
best what I mean. Maybe in the next three or 
four thousand years the word Kingdom will have 
disappeared—Kingdom, Kingship, King—but I 
doubt it; and if it does go something else equally 
fine will take its place. It will be the same thing 
in a different dress. You can’t invent anything 
finer than Kingship, the idea of the King. It is 
merely another word for the Individual, the calm, 
shrewd personality; and so long as this world 
exists the calmest and the shrewdest personality 
will always be the King. In some rare instances he 
is called the President, or he is called the Pope, or 
sometimes the General; it all comes to the same 
thing, and it is no good denying it: He is the King. 
To the artist the thought is very dear. There is 
the sense of the perfect balancer. The king (to the 
artist) is that superb part of the scales, which the 
old workmen made in gold and sometimes decked 
with precious stones; the delicately worked handle 




THE BALANCES. OUR DEVICE 


without which the scales could not exist, and 
upon which the eye of the measurer must be fixed. 
Therefore I have taken these scales as the device 
of our new art, for our art is based upon the idea 
of perfect balance, the result of movement. 

Here then is the thing which I promised at the 
beginning to bring to you. Having passed through 
your apprenticeship without having been merged 
in the trade, you are fitted to receive this. Without 
having done so you would not even be able to see it. 
I have no fear that what I throw to you now will be 
caught by other hands, because it is visible and 
tangible only to those who have passed through 
such an apprenticeship. In the beginning with you 
it was Impersonation; you passed on to Repre¬ 
sentation, and now you advance into Revelation. 
When impersonating and representing you made 
use of those materials which had always been made 
use of; that is to say, the human figure as exempli¬ 
fied in the actor, speech as exemplified in the poet 
through the actor, the visible world as shown by 
means of Scene. You now will reveal by means 
of movement the invisible things, those seen 
through the eye and not with the eye, by the 
wonderful and divine power of Movement. 

There is a thing which man has not yet learned 
to master, a thing which man dreamed not was 
waiting for him to approach with love; it was 
invisible and yet ever present with him. Superb 
in its attraction and swift to retreat, a thing waiting 



MOVEMENT 






but for the approach of the right men, prepared to 
soar with them through all the circles beyond the 
earth—it is Movement. 

It is somehow a common belief that only by 
means of words can truths be revealed. Even the 
wisdom of China has said: 44 Spiritual truth is deep 
and wide, of infinite excellence, but difficult of 
comprehension. Without words it would be im¬ 
possible to expound its doctrine; without images 
its form could not be revealed. Words explain the 
law of two and six, images delineate the relation 
of four and eight. Is it not profound, as infinite 
as space, beyond all comparison lovely ? ” 

But what of that infinite and beautiful thing 
dwelling in space called Movement ? From 
sound has been drawn that wonder of wonders 
called Music. Music, one could speak of it as 
St. Paul speaks of love. It is all love, it is all 
that he says true love should be. It suffereth all 
things, and is kind; is not puffed up, doth not be¬ 
have itself unseemly; believeth all things, hopeth 
all things—how infinitely noble. 

And as like one sphere to another, so is Move¬ 
ment like to Music. I like to remember that all 
things spring from movement, even music; and 
I like to think that it is to be our supreme honour 
to be the ministers to the supreme force—move¬ 
ment. For you see where the theatre (even the poor 
distracted and desolate theatre) is connected with 
this service. The theatres of all lands, east and 
47 



THE SONS OF LOS ^ 


west, have developed (if a degenerate development) 
from movement, the movement of the human form. 
We know so much, for it is on record : and before 
the human being assumed the grave responsibility 
of using his own person as an instrument through 
which this beauty should pass, there was another 
and a wiser race, who used other instruments. 

In the earliest days the dancer was a priest or a 
priestess, and not a gloomy one by any means; too 
soon to degenerate into something more like the 
acrobat, and finally to achieve the distinction of the 
ballet-dancer. By association with the minstrel, 
the actor appeared. I do not hold, that with the 
renaissance of the dance comes the renaissance of 
the ancient art of the Theatre, for I do not hold that 
the ideal dancer is the perfect instrument for the 
expression of all that is most perfect in movement. 
The ideal dancer, male or female, is able by the 
strength or grace of the body to express much of the 
strength and grace which is in human nature, but 
it cannot express all, nor a thousandth part of that 
all. For the same truth applies to the dancer and 
to all those who use their own person as instrument. 
Alas! the human body refuses to be an instrument, 
even to the mind which lodges in that body. The 
sons of Los rebelled and still rebel against their 
father. The old divine unity, the divine square, 
the peerless circle of our nature has been ruthlessly 
broken by our moods, and no longer can instinct 
design the square or draw the circle on the grey wall 



JULIUS CAESAR 
Act II. Scene II. 

Before you like or dislike this design will you do me the fairness 
of reading Act 11. scene ii. lt*s an exciting scene , and will repay * 
your pains. 

Then, if you are an actor-manager and you dislike it, will you 
design a better? If only one of these so-called actor-manager- 
producers, who never have really “ produced n anything, would 
let us all see him designing anything , Pm sure we should all be 
more than willing to applaud his honest endeavours and perhaps 
his achievement. As it is, he has to call in people to do his 
work for him. Hence the expense—the patchwork results—the 
dishonesty of the whole system. 


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THE TRANSLATING INSTRUMENT 


before it. But with a significant gesture we thrill 
our souls once more to advance without our bodies 
upon a new road and win it all back again. This is a 
truth which is not open to argument, and a truth 
which does not lessen the beauty which exhales 
from the dearest singer or the dearest dancer of all 
times. 

To me there is ever something more seemly in 
man when he invents an instrument which is outside 
his person, and through that instrument translates 
his message. I have ^greater admiration for the 
organ, for the flute and for the lute than I have for 
the human voice when used as instrument. I have 
a greater feeling of admiration and fitness when I 
see a machine which is made to fly than when I see 
a man attaching to himself the wings of a bird. 
For a man through his person can conquer but 
little things, but through his mind he can conceive 
and invent that which shall conquer all things. 

I believe not at all in the personal magic of man, 
but only in his impersonal magic. It seems to me 
that we should not forget that we belong to a 
period after the Fall and not before it. I can at least 
extract a certain hint from the old story. And 
though it may be only a story, I feel that it is just 
the very story for the artist. In that great period 
previous to this event we can see in our mind’s eye 
the person of man in so perfect a state that merely 
to wish to fly was to fly, merely to desire that which 
we call the impossible was to achieve it. We seem 
E 49 



o THE NAME OF THIS ART ^> 


to see man flying into the air or diving into the 
depths and taking no harm therefrom. We see 
no foolish clothes, we are aware of no hunger and 
thirst. But now that we are conscious that this 
“ square deific ” has been broken in upon, we must 
realize that no longer is man to advance and 
proclaim that his person is the perfect and fitting 
medium for the expression of the perfect thought. 

So we have to banish from our mind all thought 
of the use of a human form as the instrument which 
we are to use to translate what we call Movement. 
We shall be all the stronger without it. We shall 
no longer waste time and courage in a vain hope. 
The exact name by which this art will be known 
cannot yet be decided on, but it would be a mistake 
to return and look for names in China, India or 
Greece. We have words enough in our English 
language, and let the English word become familiar 
to the tongues of all the nations. I have written 
elsewhere, and shall continue to write, all about this 
matter as it grows in me, and you from time to 
time will read what I write. But I shall not remove 
from you the very difficulty which will be the source 
of your pleasure; I wish to leave all open and to 
make no definite rules as to how and by what means 
these movements are to be shown. This alone let 
me tell you. I have thought of and begun to make 
my instrument, and through this instrument I 
intend soon to venture in my quest of beauty. 
How do I know whether I can achieve that or not ? 

50 



THE NAME OF THIS ART o 


Therefore how can I tell you definitely what are the 
first rules which you have to learn ? Alone and 
unaided I can reach no final results. It will need 
the force of the whole race to discover all the 
beauties which are in this great source, this new 
race of artists to which you belong. When I have 
constructed my instrument, and permitted it to 
make its first assay, I look to others to make 
like instruments. Slowly, and from the principles 
which rule all these instruments some better instru¬ 
ment will be made. 

I am guided in the making of mine by only the 
very first and simplest thoughts which I am able to 
see in movement. The subtleties and the compli¬ 
cated beauties contained in movement as it is seen 
in Nature, these I dare not consider; I do not think 
I shall ever be able to hope to approach these. 
Yet that does not discourage me from attempting 
some of the plainest, barest and simplest move¬ 
ments ; I mean those which seem to me the simplest, 
those which I seem to understand. And after I 
have given activity to those I suppose I shall be 
permitted to continue to give activity to the like 
of them; but I am entirely conscious that they 
contain but the simplest of rhythms, the great 
movements will not yet be captured, no, not for 
thousands of years. But when they come, great- 
health comes with them, for we shall be nearer 
balance than we have ever been before. 

I think that movement can be divided into two 
E 2 51 



THE SQUARE AND THE CIRCLE 


distinct parts, the movement of two and four which 
is the square, the movement of one and three which 
is the circle. There is ever that which is masculine 
in the square and ever that which is feminine in the 
circle. And it seems to me that before the female 
spirit gives herself up, and with the male goes in 
quest of this vast treasure, perfect movement will 
not be discovered; at least, I like to suppose 
all this. 

And I like to suppose that this art which shall 
spring from movement will be the first andfinal belief 
of the world; and I like to dream that for the first 
time in the world men and women will achieve this 
thing together. How fresh, how beautiful it would 
be ! And as this is a new beginning it lies before 
men and before women of the next centuries as a 
vast possibility. In men and women there is a far 
greater sense of movement than of music. Can it 
be that this idea which comes to me now will at 
some future date blossom through help of the 
woman ?—or will it be, as ever, the man’s part to 
master these things alone ? The musician is a male, 
the builder is a male, the painter is a male, and the 
poet is a male. 

Come now, here is an opportunity to change 
all this. But I cannot follow the thoughts any 
farther here, neither will you be able to. 

Get on with the thought of the invention of an 
instrument by which means you can bring move¬ 
ment before our eyes. When you have reached this 
point in your developments you need have no 
52 



THE FIRST AND FINAL BELIEF 


further fear of hiding your feeling or your opinion, 
but may step forward and join me in the search. 
You will not be a revolutionary against the Theatre, 
for you will have risen above the Theatre, and 
entered into something beyond it. Maybe you will 
pursue a scientific method on your search, and that 
will lead to very valuable results. There must be a 
hundred roads leading to this point—not merely 
one; and a scientific demonstration of all that you 
may discover can in no way harm this thing. 

Well, do you see any value in the thing I give 
you ? If you do not at first you will by and by. 
I could not expect a hundred or even fifty, no, 
not ten, to understand. But one ? It is possible 
—just possible. And that one will understand that 
I write here of things, dealing with to-day—dealing 
with to-morrow and with the future, and he will be 
careful not to confound these three separate periods. 

I believe in each period and in the necessity of 
undergoing the experience each has to offer. 

I believe in the time when we shall be able to 
create works of art in the Theatre without the use 
of the written play, without the use of actors; hut 
I believe also in the necessity of daily work under 
the conditions which are to-day offered us. 

The word to-day is good, and the word to¬ 
morrow is good, and the words the future are 
divine—but the word which links all these words 
is more perfect than all; it is that balancing word 

AND. 

Florence, 1907. 


53 



THE ACTOB AND THE 
tfBEK-MAEIONETTE a a 


INSCRIBED IN ALL AFFECTION TO MY GOOD 
FRIENDS, DE VOS AND ALEXANDER HEVESI 

“ To save the Theatre, the Theatre must be 

DESTROYED, THE ACTORS AND ACTRESSES MUST ALL 
DIE OF THE PLAGUE. . . . THEY MAKE ART IMPOS¬ 
SIBLE.”—Eleonora Duse : Studies in Seven Arts , 
Arthur Symons. (Constable, 1900 .) 

I T has always been a matter for argument 
whether or no Acting is an art, and therefore 
whether the actor is an Artist, or something quite 
different. There is little to show us that this ques¬ 
tion disturbed the minds of the leaders of thought 
at any period, though there is much evidence to 
prove that had they chosen to approach this 
subject as one for their serious consideration, 
they would have applied to it the same method 
of inquiry as used when considering the arts of 
Music and Poetry, of Architecture, Sculpture and 
Painting. 

On the other hand there have been many warm 
arguments in certain circles on this topic. Those 
taking part in it have seldom been actors, very rarely 
men of the Theatre at all, and all have displayed 
any amount of illogical heat and very little know¬ 
ledge of the subject. The arguments against acting 
being an art, and against the actor being an artist 
54 





UNREASONABLE ATTACKS 


are generally so unreasonable and so personal in 
their detestation of the actor, that I think it is for 
this reason the actors have taken no trouble to 
go into the matter. So now regularly with each 
season comes the quarterly attack on the actor 
and on his jolly calling; the attack usually ending 
in the retirement of the enemy. As a rule it is 
the literary or private gentlemen who fill the 
enemy’s rank. On the strength of having gone to 
see plays all their lives, or on the strength of never 
having gone to see a play in their lives, they attack 
for some reason best known to themselves. I have 
followed these regular attacks season by season, 
and they seem mostly to spring from irritability, 
personal enmity, or conceit. They are illogical 
from beginning to end. There can be no such 
attack made on the actor or his calling. My 
intention here is not to join in any such attempt; 
I would merely place before you what seem to me 
to be the logical facts of a curious case, and I 
believe that these admit of no dispute whatever. 


CTING is not an art. It is therefore incorrect 



JTJL to speak of the actor as an artist. For acci¬ 
dent is an enemy of the artist. Art is the exact 
antithesis of pandemonium, and pandemonium is 
created by the tumbling together of many acci¬ 
dents. Art arrives only by design. Therefore in 
order to make any work of art it is clear we 
may only work in those materials with which 


55 




ACTING IS NOT AN ART o 


we can calculate. Man is not one of these 
materials. 

The whole nature of man tends towards freedom; 
he therefore carries the proof in his own person 
that as material for the Theatre he is useless. In 
the modern theatre, owing to the use of the bodies 
of men and women as their material , all which is 
presented there is of an accidental nature. The 
actions of the actor’s body, the expression of his 
face, the sounds of his voice, all are at the mercy 
of the winds of his emotions: these winds, which 
must blow for ever round the artist, moving 
without unbalancing him. But with the actor, 
emotion possesses him; it seizes upon his limbs, 
moving them whither it will. He is at its beck 
and call, he moves as one in a frantic dream or as 
one distraught, swaying here and there; his head, 
his arms, his feet, if not utterly beyond control, 
are so weak to stand against the torrent of his 
passions, that they are ready to play him false at 
any moment. It is useless for him to attempt to 
reason with himself. Hamlet’s calm directions 
(the dreamer’s, not the logician’s directions, by the 
way) are thrown to the winds. His limbs refuse, 
and refuse again to obey his mind the instant 
emotion warms, while the mind is all the time 
creating the heat which shall set these emotions 
afire. As with his movement, so is it with the 
expression of his face. The mind struggling and 
succeeding for a moment, in moving the eyes, or 
56 



EMOTION CONSPIRES AGAINST ART 


the muscles of the face whither it will; the mind 
bringing the face for a few moments into thorough 
subjection, is suddenly swept aside by the emotion 
which has grown hot through the action of the mind. 
Instantly, like lightning, and before the mind has 
time to cry out and protest, the hot passion has 
mastered the actor’s expression. It shifts and 
changes, sways and turns, it is chased by emotion 
from the actor’s forehead between his eyes and 
down to his mouth; now he is entirely at the mercy 
of emotion, and crying out to it: “ Do with me what 
you will ! ” His expression runs a mad riot hither 
and thither, and lo ! “ Nothing is coming of 
nothing.” It is the same with his voice as it is 
with his movements. Emotion cracks the voice 
of the actor. It sways his voice to join in the 
conspiracy against his mind. Emotion works 
upon the voice of the actor, and he produces the 
impression of discordant emotion. It is of no avail 
to say that emotion is the spirit of the gods, and 
is precisely what the artist aims to produce; first 
of all this is not true, and even if it were quite true, 
every stray emotion, every casual feeling, cannot 
be of value. Therefore the mind of the actor, we 
see, is less powerful than his emotion, for emotion 
is able to win over the mind to assist in the destruc¬ 
tion of that which the mind would produce; and 
as the mind becomes the slave of the emotion it 
follows that accident upon accident must be 
continually occurring. So then, we have arrived 
57 



EMOTION CONSPIRES AGAINST ART 


at this point: that emotion is the cause which 
first of all creates, and secondly destroys. Art, as 
we have said, can admit of no accidents. That, 
then, which the actor gives us, is not a work of art ; 
it is a series of accidental confessions. In the be¬ 
ginning the human body was not used as material 
in the Art of the Theatre. In the beginning the 
emotions of men and women were not considered 
as a fit exhibition for the multitude. An elephant 
and a tiger in an arena suited the taste better, 
when the desire was to excite. The passionate 
tussle between the elephant and the tiger gives us 
all the excitement that we can get from the modern 
stage, and can give it us unalloyed. Such an 
exhibition is not more brutal, it is more delicate, 
it is more humane; for there is nothing more 
outrageous than that men and women should be 
let loose on a platform, so that they may expose 
that which artists refuse to show except veiled, in 
the form which their minds create. How it was 
that man was ever persuaded to take the place 
which until that time animals had held is not 
difficult to surmise. 

The man with the greater learning comes across 
the man with the greater temperament. He 
addresses him in something like the following 
terms : “You have a most superb countenance; 
what magnificent movements you make ! Your 
voice, it is like the singing of birds; and how your 
eye flashes ! What a noble impression you give ! 



COMEDY OF AUTHOR AND ACTOR 


You almost resemble a god ! I think all people 
should have pointed out to them this wonder 
which is contained in you. I will write a few words 
which you shall address to the people. You shall 
stand before them, and you shall speak my lines 
just as you will. It is sure to be perfectly right.” 

And the man of temperament replies : 44 Is that 
really so ? Do I strike you as appearing as a god ? 
It is the very first time I have ever thought of it. 
And do you think that by appearing in front of 
the people I could make an impression which might 
benefit them, and would fill them with enthusi¬ 
asm ?” “No, no, no,” says the intelligent man; 
“by no means only by appearing; but if you 
have something to say you will indeed create a 
great impression.” 

The other answers : “ I think I shall have some 
difficulty in speaking your lines. I could easier 
just appear, and say something instinctive, such 
as 4 Salutation to all men ! ’ I feel perhaps that I 
should be able to be more myself if I acted in that 
way.” “ That is an excellent idea,” replies the 
tempter, “ that idea of yours: 4 Salutation to all 
men! ’ On that theme I will compose say one 
hundred or two hundred lines; you’ll be the very 
man to speak those lines. You have yourself 
suggested it to me. Salutation! Is it agreed, 
then, that you will do this ? ” 44 If you wish it,” 

replies the other, with a good-natured lack of 
reason, and flattered beyond measure. 

59 



TRAGEDY OF AUTHOR AND ACTOR 


And so the comedy of author and actor com¬ 
mences. The young man appears before the 
multitude and speaks the lines, and the speaking 
of them is a superb advertisement for the art of 
literature. After the applause the young man is 
swiftly forgotten; they even forgive the way he 
has spoken the lines; but as it was an original and 
new idea at the time, the author found it profit¬ 
able, and shortly afterwards other authors found 
it an excellent thing to use handsome and buoyant 
men as instruments. It mattered nothing to them 
that the instrument was a human creature. Al¬ 
though they knew not the stops of the instrument, 
they could play rudely upon him and they found 
him useful. And so to-day we have the strange 
picture of a man content to give forth the thoughts 
of another, which that other has given form to 
while at the same time he exhibits his person to 
the public view. He does it because he is flattered; 
and vanity—will not reason. But all the time, 
and however long the world may last, the nature 
in man will fight for freedom, and will revolt against 
being made a slave or medium for the expression 
of another’s thoughts. The whole thing is a very 
grave matter indeed, and it is no good to push it 
aside and protest that the actor is not the medium 
for another’s thoughts, and that he invests with 
life the dead words of an author; because even 
if this were true (true it cannot be), and even if the 
actor were to present none but the ideas which he 
60 



THE WAY OUT 






himself should compose, his nature would still be 
in servitude; his body would have to become the 
slave of his mind; and that, as I have shown, is what 
the healthy body utterly refuses to do. Therefore 
the body of man, for the reason which I have 
given, is by nature utterly useless as a material 
for an art. I am fully aware of the sweeping 
character of this statement; and as it concerns 
men and women who a^e alive, and who as a class 
are ever to be loved, more must be said lest I give 
unintentional offence. I know perfectly well that 
what I have said here is not yet going to create 
an exodus of all the actors from all the theatres 
in the world, driving them into sad monasteries 
where they will laugh out the rest of their lives, 
with the Art of the Theatre as the main topic for 
amusing conversation. As I have written else¬ 
where, the Theatre will continue its growth and 
actors will continue for some years to hinder its 
development. But I see a loop-hole by which in 
time the actors can escape from the bondage they 
are in. They must create for themselves a new 
form of acting, consisting for the main part of 
symbolical gesture. To-day they impersonate and 
interpret; to-morrow they must represent and in¬ 
terpret ; and the third day they must create. By 
this means style may return. To-day the actor 
impersonates a certain being. He cries to the 
audience : “ Watch me; I am now pretending to 
be so and so, and I am now pretending to do so 
61 



THE ACTOR IMITATES o 


and so; ” and then he proceeds to imitate as ex¬ 
actly as possible, that which he has announced he 
will indicate. For instance, he is Romeo. He tells 
the audience that he is in love, and he proceeds 
to show it, by kissing Juliet. This, it is claimed, is 
a work of art: it is claimed for this that it is 
an intelligent way of suggesting thought. Why— 
why, that is just as if a painter were to draw upon 
the wall a picture of an animal with long ears 
and then write under it “ This is a donkey.” The 
long ears made it plain enough, one would think, 
without the inscription, and any child of ten does 
as much. The difference between the child of 
ten and the artist is that the artist is he who 
by drawing certain signs and shapes creates the 
impression of a donkey : and the greater artist is 
he who creates the impression of the whole genus 
of donkey, the spirit of the thing. 

The actor looks upon life as a photo-machine 
looks upon life; and he attempts to make a picture 
to rival a photograph. He never dreams of his 
art as being an art such for instance as music. He 
tries to reproduce Nature; he seldom thinks to 
invent with the aid of Nature, and he never dreams 
of creating. As I have said, the best he can do 
when he wants to catch and convey the poetry 
of a kiss, the heat of a fight, or the calm of death, 
is to copy slavishly, photographically—he kisses— 
he fights—he lies back and mimics death—and, 
when you think of it, is not all this dreadfully 



ACTOR WOULD RIVAL PHOTOGRAPHER 


stupid ? Is it not a poor art and a poor cleverness, 
which cannot convey the spirit and essence of an 
idea to an audience, but can only show an artless 
copy, a facsimile of the thing itself ? This is to be 
an imitator, not an artist. This is to claim kin¬ 
ship with the ventriloquist . 1 

There is a stage expression of the actor “ getting 
under the skin of the part.” A better one would 
be getting “ out of the skin of the part altogether.” 
“ What, then,” cries the red-blooded and flashing 
actor, “ is there to be no flesh and blood in this 
same art of the theatre of yours ? No life ? ” 
It depends what you call life, signor, when you use 
the word in relation with the idea of art. The 
painter means something rather different to actual¬ 
ity when he speaks of life in his art, and the 
other artists generally mean something essentially 
spiritual; it is only the actor, the ventriloquist, or 
the animal-stuffer who, when they speak of putting 
life into their work, mean some actual and lifelike 

1 “ And therefore when any one of these pantomimic gentle¬ 
men, who are so clever that they can imitate anything, comes to 
us, and makes a proposal to exhibit himself and his poetry, we 
will fall down and worship him as a sweet and holy and wonder¬ 
ful being; but we must also inform him that in our State such 
as he are not permitted to exist : the law will not allow them. 
And so, when we have anointed him with myrrh, and set a 
garland of wool upon his head, we shall lead him away to 
another city. For we mean to employ for our soul’s health the 
rougher and severer poet or story-teller, who will imitate the 
style of the virtuous only, and will follow those models which we 
prescribed at first when we began the education of our soldiers.” 
—Plato. [The whole passage being too long to print here, we 
refer the reader to The Republic, Book III. p. 395.J 
63 



ACTOR , ARTIST , MUSICIAN 


reproduction, something blatant in its appeal, that 
it is for this reason I say that it would be better 
if the actor should get out of the skin of the part 
altogether. If there is any actor who is reading 
this, is there not some way by which I can make 
him realize the preposterous absurdity of this 
delusion of his, this belief that he should aim to 
make an actual copy, a reproduction ? I am going 
to suppose that such an actor is here with me 
as I talk; and I invite a musician and a painter 
to join us. Let them speak. I have had enough 
of seeming to decry the work of the actor from 
trivial motives. I have spoken this way because 
of my love of the Theatre, and because of my 
hopes and belief that before long an extraordinary 
development is to raise and revive that which is 
failing in the Theatre, and my hope and belief that 
the actor will bring the force of his courage to assist 
in this revival. My attitude towards the whole 
matter is misunderstood by many in the Theatre. 
It is considered to be my attitude, mine alone; a 
stray quarreller I seem to be in their eyes, a pessi¬ 
mist, grumbling; one who is tired of a thing and 
who attempts to break it. Therefore let the other 
artists speak with the actor, and let the actor 
support his own case as best he may, and let him 
listen to their opinion on matters of art. We 
sit here conversing, the actor, the musician, the 
painter and myself. I who represent an art distinct 
from all these, shall remain silent. 

64 



THEIR DIFFERENT ATTITUDES 


As we sit here, the talk first turns upon Nature. 
We are surrounded by beautiful curving hills and 
trees, vast and towering mountains in the distance 
covered with snow; around us innumerable delicate 
sounds of Nature stirring—Life. “ How beautiful,” 
says the painter, “ how beautiful the sense of all 
this ! ” He is dreaming of the almost impossi¬ 
bility of conveying on to, his canvas the full earthly 
and spiritual value of that which is around him, 
yet he faces the thing as man generally faces that 
which is most dangerous. The musician gazes 
upon the ground. The actor’s is an inward and 
personal gaze at himself. He is unconsciously 
enjoying the sense of himself, as representing the 
main and central figure in a really good scene. He 
strides across the space between us and the view, 
sweeping in a half circle, and he regards the superb 
panorama without seeing it, conscious of one thing 
only, himself and his attitude. Of course an 
actress would stand there meek in the presence of 
Nature. She is but a little thing, a little picturesque 
atom; for picturesque we know she is in every 
movement, in the sigh which, almost unheard by 
the rest of us, she conveys to her audience and to 
herself, that she is there, “ little me,” in the presence 
of the God that made her, and all the rest of the 
sentimental nonsense. So we are all collected here, 
and having taken the attitudes natural to us, 
we proceed to question each other. And let us 
imagine that for once we are all really interested 
F 65 



THEY SHALL SPEAK THE TRUTH 


in finding out all about the other’s interests, and 
the other’s work. (I grant that this is very un¬ 
usual, and that mind-selfishness, the highest form 
of stupidity, encloses many a professed artist 
somewhat tightly in a little square box.) But let 
us take it for granted that there is a general interest; 
that the actor and the musician wish to learn some¬ 
thing about the art of painting; and that the 
painter and the musician wish to understand from 
the actor what his work consists of and whether 
and why he considers it an art. For here they shall 
not mince matters, but shall speak that which they 
believe. As they are looking only for the truth, 
they have nothing to fear; they are all good fellows, 
all good friends; not thin-skinned, and can give 
and take blows. “ Tell us,” asks the painter, “ is 
it true that before you can act a part properly you 
must feel the emotions of the character you are 
representing ? ” “ Oh well, yes and no; it depends 

what you mean,” answers the actor. “ We have 
first to be able to feel and sympathize and also 
criticize the emotions of a character; we look at it 
from a distance before we close with it: we gather 
as much as we can from the text and we call to 
mind all the emotions suitable for this character 
to exhibit. After having many times rearranged 
and selected those emotions which we consider 
of importance we then practise to reproduce them 
before the audience; and in order to do so we must 
feel as little as is necessary; in fact the less we feel, 
66 



PERFECT ACTING IMPOSSIBLE 


the firmer will our hold be upon our facial and 
bodily expression.” With a gesture of genial im¬ 
patience, the artist rises to his feet and paces to 
and fro. He had expected his friend to say that 
it had nothing whatever to do with emotions, and 
that he could control his face, features, voice and 
all, just as if his body were an instrument. The 
musician sinks down deeper into his chair. “ But 
has there never been an actor,” asks the artist, 
“ who has so trained his body from head to foot 
that it would answer to the workings of his mind 
without permitting the emotions even so much as 
to awaken ? Surely there must have been one 
actor, say one out of ten millions, who has done 
this? ” “ No,” says the actor emphatically, “never, 
never; there never has been an actor who reached 
such a state of mechanical perfection that his body 
was absolutely the slave of his mind. Edmund Kean 
of England, Salvini of Italy, Rachel, Eleonora 
Duse, I call them all to mind and I repeat there 
never was an actor or actress such as you describe.’ 
The artist here asks: “ Then you admit that it 
would be a state of perfection ? ” “ Why, of 

course ! But it is impossible; will always be im¬ 
possible,” cries the actor; and he rises—almost 
with a sense of relief. “ That is as much as to say, 
there never was a perfect actor, there has never 
been an actor who has not spoiled his performance 
once, twice, ten times, sometimes a hundred times, 
during the evening ? There never has been a 
f 2 67 



THE WILL OF THE ARTIST 


piece of acting which could be called even almost 
perfect, and there never will be ? ” For answer 
the actor asks quickly: “ But has there been ever 
a painting, or a piece of architecture, or a piece of 
music which may be called perfect ? ” “ Un¬ 

doubtedly,” they reply. “ The laws which control 
our arts make such a thing possible.” “ A picture, 
for instance,” continues the artist, “ may con¬ 
sist of four lines, or four hundred lines, placed 
in certain positions; it may be as simple as possible, 
but it is possible to make it perfect. That is to 
say, I can first choose that which is to make the 
lines; I can choose that on which I am to place 
the lines : I can consider this as long as I like; 
I can alter it; then in a state which is both free 
from excitement, haste, trouble, nervousness—in 
fact, in any state I choose (and of course I prepare, 
wait, and select that also)—I can put these lines to¬ 
gether—so—now they are in their place. Having 
my material, nothing except my own will can move 
or alter these; and, as I have said, my own will is 
entirely under my control. The line can be straight 
or it can wave; it can be round if I choose, and there 
is no fear that when I wish to make a straight 
line I shall make a curved one, or that when I wish 
to make a curved there will be square parts about 
it. And when it is ready—finished—it undergoes 
no change but that which Time, who finally de¬ 
stroys it, wills.” “ That is rather an extraordinary 
thing,” replies the actor; “ I wish it were possible 
68 



WORKS OF ART AND CHANCE 

in my work.” “ Yes,” replies the artist, “ it is 
a very extraordinary thing, and it is that which I 
hold makes the difference between an intelligent 
statement and a casual or haphazard statement. 
The most intelligent statement, that is a work of 
art. The haphazard statement, that is a work of 
chance. When the intelligent statement reaches 
its highest possible form it becomes a work of fine 
art. And therefore I have always held, though I 
may be mistaken, that your work has not the 
nature of an art. That is to say (and you have 
said it yourself) each statement that you make in 
your work is subject to every conceivable change 
which emotion chooses to bring about. That which 
you conceive in your mind, your body is not per¬ 
mitted by Nature to complete. In fact, your 
body, gaining the better of your intelligence, has 
in many instances on the stage driven out the in¬ 
telligence altogether. Some actors seem to say: 
4 What value lies in having beautiful ideas ? To 
what end shall my mind conceive a fine idea, a fine 
thought, for my body, which is so entirely beyond 
my control, to spoil ? I will throw my mind 
overboard, let my body pull me and the play 
through; ’ and there seems to me to be some 
wisdom in the standpoint of such an actor. He 
does not dilly-dally between the two things which 
are contending in him, the one against the other. 
He is not a bit afraid of the result. He goes at it 
like a man, sometimes a trifle too like a centaur; 

69 



THE BRAVE ACTOR 


he flings away all science, all caution, all reason, 
and the result is good spirits in the audience, and 
for that they pay willingly. But we are here talk¬ 
ing about other things than excellent spirits, and 
though we applaud the actor who exhibits such a 
personality as this, I feel that we must not forget 
that we are applauding his personality, he it is we 
applaud, not what he is doing or how he is doing 
it; nothing to do with art at all, absolutely nothing 
to do with art, with calculation, or design.” 
“ You’re a nice friendly creature,” laughs the 
actor gaily, “ telling me my art’s no art! But 
I believe I see what you mean. You mean to say 
that before I appear on the stage, and before my 
body commences to come into the question, I am 
an artist.” “ Well, yes, you are, you happen to 
be, because you are a very bad actor; you’re 
abominable on the stage, but you have ideas, you 
have imagination; you are rather an exception, I 
should say. I have heard you tell me how you 
would play Richard III; what you would do; 
what strange atmosphere you would spread over 
the whole thing; and that which you have told me 
you have seen in the play, and that which you 
have invented and added to it, is so remarkable, 
so consecutive in its thought, so distinct and clear 
in form, that if you could make your body into a 
machine, or into a dead piece of material such as 
clay; and if it could obey you in every movement 
for the entire space of time it was before the audi- 
70 



LAWS OF THE ART OF THE THEATRE 


ence; and if you could put aside Shakespeare’s 
poem—you would be able to make a work of art out 
of that which is in you. For you would not only 
have dreamt, you would have executed to per¬ 
fection ; and that which you had executed could be 
repeated time after time without so much differ¬ 
ence as between two farthings.” “ Ah,” sighs the 
actor, 46 you place a terrible picture before me. 
You would prove to me that it is impossible for 
us ever to think of ourselves as artists. You take 
away our finest dream, and you give us nothing in 
its place.” “ No, no, that’s not for me to give 
you. That’s for you to find. Surely there must 
be laws at the roots of the Art of the Theatre, just 
as there are laws at the roots of all true arts, 
which if found and mastered would bring you 
all you desire ? ” “Yes, the search would bring 
the actors to a wall.” “ Leap it, then ! ” “ Too 

high ! ” “ Scale it, then ! ” “ How do we know 

where it would lead ? ” “ Why, up and over.” 

“ Yes, but that’s talking wildly, talking in the 
air.” “ Well, that’s the direction you fellows 
have to go; fly in the air, live in the air. Something 
will follow when some of you begin to. I sup¬ 
pose,” continues he, “ you will get at the root of 
the matter in time, and then what a splendid 
future opens before you ! In fact, I envy you. 
I am not sure I do not wish that photography 
had been discovered before painting, so that we 
of this generation might have had the intense joy 
71 



LESS EXACT TRAN PHOTOGRAPHY 


of advancing, showing that photography was 
pretty well in its way, but there was something 
better ! ” “ Do you hold that our work is on a 

level with photography ? ” “ No, indeed, it is not 

half as exact. It is less of an art even than 
photography. In fact, you and I, who have been 
talking all this time while the musician has sat 
silent, sinking deeper and deeper into his chair, 
our arts by the side of his art, are jokes, games, 
absurdities.” At which the musician must go and 
spoil the whole thing by gettingup and giving vent 
to some foolish remark. The actor immediately cries 
out, “ But I don’t see that that’s such a wonder¬ 
ful remark for a representative of the only art in 
the world to make,” at which they all laugh— 
the musician in a sort of crest-fallen, conscious 
manner. “ My dear fellow, that is just because 
he is a musician. He is nothing except in his 
music. He is, in fact, somewhat unintelligent, 
except when he speaks in notes, in tones, and in 
the rest of it. He hardly knows our language, 
he hardly knows our world, and the greater the 
musician, the more is this noticeable; indeed it is 
rather a bad sign when you meet a composer who 
is intelligent. And as for the intellectual musician, 

why, that means another-; but we mustn’t 

whisper that name here—he is so popular to-day. 
What an actor the man would have been, and what 
a personality he had! I understand that all his 
life he had yearnings towards being an actor, and 
72 




ANEW ROPE o 

I believe he would have been an excellent comedian; 
whereas he became a musician—or was it a play¬ 
wright ? Anyhow, it all turned out a great 
success—a success of personality.” “ Was it not 
a success of art ? ” asks the musician. “ Well, 
which art do you mean ? ” “ Oh, all the arts 

combined,” he replies, blunderingly but placidly. 
“ How can that be How can all arts combine 
and make one art ? It can only make one joke— 
one Theatre. Things which slowly, by a natural 
law join together, may have some right in the course 
of many years or many centuries to ask Nature 
to bestow a new name on their product. Only by 
this means can a new art be born. I do not be¬ 
lieve that the old mother approves of the forcing 
process; and if she ever winks at it, she soon has 
her revenge; and so it is with the arts. You cannot 
commingle them and cry out that you have created 
a new art. If you can find in Nature a new material , 
one which has never yet been used by man to give 
form to his thoughts , then you can say that you are 
on the high road towards creating a new art. For 
you have found that by which you can create it. It 
then only remains for you to begin. The Theatre, 
as I see it, has yet to find that material.” And 
thus their conversation ends. 

For my part I am with the artist’s last state¬ 
ment. My pleasure shall not be to compete with 
the strenuous photographer, and I shall ever aim 
to get something entirely opposed to life as we see 
73 



A MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY 


it. This flesh-and-blood life, lovely as it is to us 
all, is for me not a thing made to search into, or to 
give out again to the world, even conventionalized. 
I think that my aim shall rather be to catch some 
far-off glimpse of that spirit which we call Death— 
to recall beautiful things from the imaginary world; 
they say they are cold, these dead things, I do not 
know—they often seem warmer and more living than 
that which parades as life. Shades—spirits seem 
to me to be more beautiful, and filled with more 
vitality than men and women; cities of men and 
women packed with pettiness, creatures inhuman, 
secret, coldest cold, hardest humanity. For, look¬ 
ing too long upon life, may one not find all this 
to be not the beautiful, nor the mysterious, nor the 
tragic, but the dull, the melodramatic, and the 
silly : the conspiracy against vitality—against both 
red heat and white heat ? And from such things 
which lack the sun of life it is not possible to draw 
inspiration. But from that mysterious, joyous, 
and superbly complete life which is called Death— 
that life of shadow and of unknown shapes, where 
all cannot be blackness and fog as is supposed, 
but vivid colour, vivid light, sharp-cut form; and 
which one finds peopled with strange, fierce and 
solemn figures, pretty figures and calm figures, 
and those figures impelled to some wondrous 
harmony of movement—all this is something more 
than a mere matter of fact. From this idea of death, 
which seems a kind of spring, a blossoming—from 
74 



IMPERSONATION UNDESIRABLE 


this land and from this idea can come so vast an 
inspiration, that with unhesitating exultation I 
leap forward to it; and behold, in an instant, I find 
my arms full of flowers. I advance but a pace or 
two and again plenty is around me. I pass at ease 
on a sea of beauty, I sail whither the winds take 
me— there , there is no danger. So much for my 
own personal wish; byt the entire Theatre of the 
world is not represented in me, nor in a hundred 
artists or actors, but in something far different. 
Therefore what my personal aim may be is of very 
little importance. Yet the aim of the Theatre as 
a whole is to restore its art, and it should commence 
by banishing from the Theatre this idea of im¬ 
personation, this idea of reproducing Nature; for, 
while impersonation is in the Theatre, the Theatre 
can never become free. The performers should 
train under the influence of an earlier teaching (if 
the very earliest and finest principles are too stern 
to commence with), and they will have to avoid 
that frantic desire to put life into their work; 
for three thousand times against one time it means 
the bringing of excessive gesture, swift mimicry, 
speech which bellows and scene which dazzles, on 
to the stage, in the wild and vain belief that by such 
means vitality can be conjured there. And in a 
few instances, to prove the rule, all this partially 
succeeds. It succeeds partially with the bubbling 
personalities of the Stage. With them it is a case 
of sheer triumph in spite of the rules, in the very 
75 



THE BUBBLING PERSONALITY 


teeth of the rules, and we who look on throw our 
hats into the air, cheer, and cheer again. We 
have to ; we don’t want to consider or to question; 
we go with the tide through admiration and 
suggestion. That we are hypnotized our taste 
cares not a rap : we are delighted to be so moved, 
and we literally jump for joy. The great person¬ 
ality has triumphed both over us and the art. 
But personalities such as these are extremely rare, 
and if we wish to see a personality assert itself in 
the Theatre and entirely triumph as an actor we 
must at the same time be quite indifferent about 
the play and the other actors, about beauty and 
art. 

Those who do not think with me in this whole 
matter are the worshippers, or respectful admirers, 
of the personalities of the Stage. It is intolerable 
to them that I should assert that the Stage must 
be cleared of all its actors and actresses before 
it will again revive. How could they agree with 
me ? That would include the removal of their 
favourites—the two or three beings who transform 
the stage for them from a vulgar joke into an ideal 
land. But what should they fear ? No danger 
threatens their favourites—for were it possible to 
put an act into force to prohibit all men and women 
from appearing before the public upon the stage of 
a theatre, this would not in the least affect these 
favourites—these men and women of personality 
whom the playgoers crown. Consider any one of 
these personalities born at a period when the Stage 
76 



FLAUBERT 






was unknown; would it in any way have lessened 
their power—hindered their expression ? Not a 
whit. Personality invents the means and ways 
by which it shall express itself; and acting is but 
one—the very least—of the means at the command 
of a great personality, and these men and women 
would have been famous at any time, and in any 
calling. But if there^are many to whom it is in¬ 
tolerable that I should propose to clear the Stage 
of all the actors and actresses in order to revive 
the Art of the Theatre, there are others to whom 
it seems agreeable. 

“ The artist,” says Flaubert, “ should be in his 
work like God in creation, invisible and all-power¬ 
ful ; he should be felt everywhere and seen nowhere. 
Art should be raised above personal affection and 
nervous susceptibility . 1 It is time to give it the 
perfection of the physical sciences by means of a 
pitiless method.” And again, “ I have always tried 
not to belittle Art for the satisfaction of an isolated 
personality.” He is thinking mainly of the art of 
literature; but if he feels this so strongly of the 
writer, one who is never actually seen, but merely 
stands half revealed behind his work, how totally 
opposed must he have been to the actual appear¬ 
ance of the actor—personality or no personality. 

Charles Lamb says : “To see Lear acted, to 
see an old man tottering about with a stick, turned 
out of doors by his daughters on a rainy night, 
has nothing in it but what is painful and dis- 
1 “ Punch has no feeling,” growled Dr. Johnson. 

77 



CHARLES LAMB—DANTE—HAZLITT 


gusting. We want to take him in to shelter, that 
is all the feeling the acting of Lear ever produced 
in me. The contemptible machinery by which 
they mimic the storm which he goes in is not 
more inadequate to represent the horror of the 
real elements than any actor can be to represent 
Lear. They might more easily propose to personate 
the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or one of Michel¬ 
angelo’s terrible figures—Lear is essentially im¬ 
possible to be represented on the stage.” 

“ Hamlet himself seems hardly capable of being 
acted,” says William Hazlitt. 

Dante in La Vita Nuova tells us that, in a 
dream, Love, in the figure of a youth, appeared to 
him. Discoursing of Beatrice, Dante is told by 
Love “ to compose certain things in rhyme, in 
the which thou shalt set forth how strong a master¬ 
ship I have obtained over thee, through her. And 
so write these things that they shall seem rather 
to be spoken by a third person, and not directly 
by thee to her, which is scarce fitting.” And again: 
“ There came upon me a great desire to say some¬ 
what in rhyme : but when I began thinking how 
I should say it, methought that to speak of her 
were unseemly, unless I spoke to other ladies in the 
second person. ” We see then that to these men it is 
wrong that the living person should advance into 
the frame and display himself upon his own canvas. 
They hold it as “ unseemly ”—“ scarce fitting.” 

We have here witnesses against the whole 
business of the modern stage. Collectively they 
78 



ELEANORA DUSE 


pass the following sentence : That it is bad art 
to make so personal, so emotional, an appeal that 
the beholder forgets the thing itself while swamped 
by the personality, the emotion, of its maker. And 
now for the testimony of an actress. 

Eleonora Duse has said : “To save the Theatre, 
the Theatre must be destroyed, the actors and 
actresses must all diejof the plague. They poison 
the air, they make art impossible .” 1 

We may believe her. She means what Flaubert 
and Dante mean, even if she words it differently. 
And there are many more witnesses to testify for me, 
if this is held to be insufficient evidence. There 
are the people who never go to the theatres, the 
millions of men against the thousands who do go. 
Then, we have the support of most of the managers 
of the Theatre of to-day. The modern theatre- 
manager thinks the stage should have its plays 
gorgeously decorated. He will say that no pains 
should be spared to bring every assistance towards 
cheating the audience into a sense of reality. He 
will never cease telling us how important all these 
decorations are. He urges all this for several 
reasons, and the following reason is not the least: 
He scents a grave danger in simple and good work; 
he sees that there is a body of people who are 
opposed to these lavish decorations; he knows that 
there has been a distinct movement in Europe 
against this display, it having been claimed that 
the great plays gained when represented in front 

1 Studies in Seven Arts , Arthur Symons. (Constable, 1900.) 

79 



NAPOLEON 






of the plainest background. This movement can 
be proved to be a powerful one—it has spread 
from Krakau to Moscow, from Paris to Rome, 
from London to Berlin and Vienna. The managers 
see this danger ahead of them; they see that if 
once people came to realize this fact, if once the 
audience tasted of the delight which a sceneless play 
brings, they would then go further and desire the 
play which was presented without actors; and finally 
they would go on and on and on until they, and 
not the managers, had positively reformed the art. 

Napoleon is reported to have said: “In life 
there is much that is unworthy which in art should 
be omitted; much of doubt and vacillation; and all 
should disappear in the representation of the hero. 
We should see him as a statue in which the weakness 
and the tremors of the flesh are no longer 'perceptible” 
And not only Napoleon, but Ben Jonson, Lessing, 
Edmund Scherer, Hans Christian Andersen, Lamb, 
Goethe, George Sand, Coleridge, Anatole France, 
Ruskin, Pater , 1 and I suppose all the intelligent men 

1 Of Sculpture Pater writes: “ Its white light, purged from 
the angry, bloodlike stains of action and passion, reveals, not 
what is accidental in man, but the god in him, as opposed to 
man’s restless movement.” Again : “ The base of all artistic 
genius is the power of conceiving humanity in a new, striking, 
rejoicing way, of putting a happy world of its own construction 
in place of the meaner world of common days, of generating 
around itself an atmosphere with a novel power of refraction, 
selecting, transforming, recombining the images it transmits, 
according to the choice of the imaginative intellect.” And 
again : “ All that is accidental, all that distracts the simple effect 
upon us of the supreme types of humanity, all traces in them of 
the commonness of the world, it gradually purges away.” 

80 



THE LANTERN BEARERS 


A design for costume and lighting , not for a modern theatre. 








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THE tJBER-MARlONETTE 


and women of Europe—one does not speak of Asia, 
for even the unintelligent in Asia fail to comprehend 
photographs while understanding art as a simple 
and clear manifestation—have protested against 
this reproduction of Nature, and with it photo¬ 
graphic and weak actuality. They have protested 
against all this, and the theatrical managers have 
argued against them energetically, and so we look 
for the truth to emerge in due time. It is a reason¬ 
able conclusion. Do away with the real tree, do 
away with the reality of delivery, do away with 
the reality of action, and you tend towards the 
doing away with the actor. This is what must 
come to pass in time, and I like to see the 
managers supporting the idea already. Do away 
with the actor, and you do away with the means 
by which a debased stage-realism is produced 
and flourishes. No longer would there be a living 
figure to confuse us into connecting actuality and 
art; no longer a living figure in which the weak¬ 
ness and tremors of the flesh were perceptible . 1 

The actor must go,and in his place comes the inani¬ 
mate figure—the Uber-marionette we may call him, 
until he has won for himself a better name. Much 
has been written about the puppet, or marionette. 
There are some excellent volumes upon him, and 
he has also inspired several works of art. To-day 

1 From another point of view, and one not lightly to be either 
overlooked or discussed, Cardinal Manning, the Englishman, is 
particularly emphatic when he speaks of the actor's business as 
necessitating “ the prostitution of a body purified by baptism” 

G 81 



^ THE MARIONETTE o 


in his least happy period many people come to 
regard him as rather a superior doll—and to think 
he has developed from the doll. This is incorrect. 
He is a descendant of the stone images of the old 
temples—he is to-day a rather degenerate form 
of a god. Always the close friend of children, he 
still knows how to select and attract his devotees. 

When any one designs a puppet on paper, he 
draws a stiff and comic-looking thing. Such an 
one has not even perceived what is contained in 
the idea which we now call the marionette. He 
mistakes gravity of face and calmness of body 
for blank stupidity and angular deformity. Yet 
even modern puppets are extraordinary things. 
The applause may thunder or dribble, their hearts 
beat no faster, no slower, their signals do not grow 
hurried or confused; and, though drenched in a 
torrent of bouquets and love, the face of the lead¬ 
ing lady remains as solemn, as beautiful and as 
remote as ever. There is something more than a 
flash of genius in the marionette, and there is some¬ 
thing in him more than the flashiness of displayed 
personality. The marionette appears to me to be 
the last echo of some noble and beautiful art of a past 
civilization. But as with all art which has passed 
into fat or vulgar hands, the puppet has become a 
reproach. All puppets are now but low comedians. 

They imitate the comedians of the larger and 
fuller blooded stage. They enter only to fall on 
their back. They drink only to reel, and make 
82 



EIGHT HUNDRED B.C. 


love only to raise a laugh. They have forgotten 
the counsel of their mother the Sphinx. Their 
bodies have lost their grave grace, they have 
become stiff. Their eyes have lost that infinite 
subtlety of seeming to see; now they only stare 
They display and jingle their wires and are cock¬ 
sure in their wooden Wisdom. They have failed 
to remember that their art should carry on it the 
same stamp of reserve that we see at times on the 
work of other artists, and that the highest art is 
that which conceals the craft and forgets the 
craftsman. Am I mistaken, or is it not the old 
Greek Traveller of 800 b.c. who, describing a visit 
to the temple-theatre in Thebes, tells us that he 
was won to their beauty by their “ noble artifi¬ 
ciality ” ? “ Coming into the House of Visions I 

saw afar off the fair brown Queen seated upon 
her throne—her tomb—for both it seemed to me. 
I sank back upon my couch and watched her 
symbolic movements. With so much ease did her 
rhythms alter as with her movements they passed 
from limb to limb; with such a show of calm did 
she unloose for us the thoughts of her breast; so 
gravely and so beautifully did she linger on the 
statement of her sorrow, that with us it seemed 
as if no sorrow could harm her; no distortion of 
body or feature allowed us to dream that she was 
conquered; the passion and the pain were con¬ 
tinually being caught by her hands, held gently, 
and viewed calmly. Her arms and hands seemed 
G 2 83 



ART OF SHOWING AND VEILING 


at one moment like a thin warm fountain of water 
which rose, then broke and fell with all those sweet 
pale fingers like spray into her lap. It would 
have been as a revelation of art to us had I not 
already seen that the same spirit dwelt in the other 
examples of the art of these Egyptians. This 
4 Art of Showing and Veiling,’ as they call it, is so 
great a spiritual force in the land that it plays 
the larger part in their religion. We may learn 
from it somewhat of the power and the grace of 
courage, for it is impossible to witness a perform¬ 
ance without a sense of physical and spiritual 
refreshment.” This in 800 b.c. And who knows 
whether the puppet shall not once again become 
the faithful medium for the beautiful thoughts 
of the artist. May we not look forward with hope 
to that day which shall bring back to us once 
more the figure, or symbolic creature, made also 
by the cunning of the artist, so that we can gain 
once more the “ noble artificiality ” which the old 
writer speaks of ? Then shall we no longer be 
under the cruel influence of the emotional con¬ 
fessions of weakness which are nightly witnessed 
by the people and which in their turn create in the 
beholders the very weaknesses which are exhibited. 
To that end we must study to remake these images 
—no longer content with a puppet, we must create 
an liber-marionette. The uber-marionette will 
not compete with life—rather will it go beyond 
it. Its ideal will not be the flesh and blood but 



THE VJBER-MAR10NETTE 


rather the body in trance—it will aim to clothe 
itself with a death-like beauty while exhaling a 
living spirit. Several times in the course of this 
essay has a word or two about Death found its 
way on to the paper—called there by the incessant 
clamouring of “ Life ! Life ! Life ! ” which the 
realists keep up. And this might be easily mis¬ 
taken for an affectation, especially by those who 
have no sympathy or delight in the power and the 
mysterious joyousness which is in all passionless 
works of art. If the famous Rubens and the 
celebrated Raphael made none but passionate 
and exuberant statements, there were many artists 
before them and since to whom moderation in 
their art was the most precious of all their aims, 
and these more than all others exhibit the true 
masculine manner. The other flamboyant or 
drooping artists whose works and names catch the 
eye of to-day do not so much speak like men as 
bawl like animals, or lisp like women. 

The wise, the moderate masters, strong because 
of the laws to which they swore to remain ever 
faithful—their names unknown for the most part— 
a fine family—the creators of the great and tiny 
gods of the East and the West, the guardians 
of those larger times: these all bent their 
thoughts forward towards the unknown, searching 
for sights and sounds in that peaceful and joyous 
country, that they might raise a figure of stone 
or sing a verse, investing it with that same peace 
85 



IN AMERICA , ASIA , AFRICA 


and joy seen from afar, so as to balance all the 
grief and turmoil here. 

In America we can picture these brothers of 
that family of masters, living in their superb 
ancient cities, colossal cities, which I ever think 
of as able to be moved in a single day; cities of 
spacious tents of silk and canopies of gold under 
which dwelt their gods; dwellings which contained 
all the requirements of the most fastidious; those 
moving cities which, as they travelled from height 
to plain, over rivers and down valleys, seemed 
like some vast advancing army of peace. And 
in each city not one or two men called “ artists ” 
whom the rest of the city looked upon as ne’er-do- 
well idlers, but many men chosen by the community 
because of their higher powers of perception— 
artists. For that is what the title of artist means : 
one who perceives more than his fellows, and who 
records more than he has seen. And not the least 
among those artists was the artist of the cere¬ 
monies, the creator of the visions, the minister 
whose duty it was to celebrate their guiding spirit 
—the spirit of Motion. 

In Asia, too, the forgotten masters of the temples 
and all that those temples contained have per¬ 
meated every thought, every mark, in their work 
with this sense of calm motion resembling death— 
glorifying and greeting it. In Africa (which some 
of us think we are but now to civilize) this spirit 
dwelt, the essence of the perfect civilization. There, 
86 



LOVE INSTEAD OF GUSH 


too, dwelt the great masters, not individuals 
obsessed with the idea of each asserting his person¬ 
ality as if it were a valuable and mighty thing, but 
content because of a kind of holy patience to move 
their brains and their fingers only in that direction 
permitted by the la^—in the service of the simple 
truths. 

How stern the law was, and how little the artist 
of that day permitted himself to make an exhibi¬ 
tion of his personal feelings, can be discovered by 
looking at any example of Egyptian art. Look 
at any limb ever carved by the Egyptians, search 
into all those carved eyes, they will deny you 
until the crack of doom. Their attitude is so 
silent that it is death-like. Yet tenderness is there, 
and charm is there; prettiness is even there side 
by side with the force; and love bathes each single 
work; but gush, emotion, swaggering personality 
of the artist ?—not one single breath of it. Fierce 
doubts of hope ?—not one hint of such a thing. 
Strenuous determination ?—not a sign of it has 
escaped the artist; none of these confessions— 
stupidities. Nor pride, nor fear, nor the comic, 
nor any indication that the artist’s mind or hand 
was for the thousandth part of a moment out of 
the command of the laws which ruled him. How 
superb ! This it is to be a great artist; and the 
amount of emotional outpourings of to-day and 
of yesterday are no signs of supreme intelligence, 
that is to say, are no signs of supreme art. To 
87 



‘COME AS YOU ARE ’ 




«£> 


Europe came this spirit, hovered over Greece, 
could hardly be driven out of Italy, but finally 
fled, leaving a little stream of tears—pearls—before 
us. And we, having crushed most of them, 
munching them along with the acorns of our food, 
have gone farther and fared worse, and have 
prostrated ourselves before the so-called “ great 
masters,” and have worshipped these dangerous 
and flamboyant personalities. On an evil day 
we thought in our ignorance that it was us they 
were sent to draw; that it was our thoughts they 
were sent to express; that it was something to do 
with us that they were putting into their archi¬ 
tecture, their music. And so it was we came to 
demand that we should be able to recognize our¬ 
selves in all that they put hand to; that is to say, 
in their architecture, in their sculpture, in their 
music, in their painting, and in their poetry we 
were to figure—and we also reminded them to 
invite us with the familiar words : “ Come as vou 
are.” 

The artists after many centuries have given in, 
that which we asked them for they have supplied. 
And so it came about that when this ignorance 
had driven off the fair spirit which once controlled 
the mind and hand of the artist, a dark spirit took 
its place; the happy-go-lucky hooligan in the seat 
of the law—that is to say, a stupid spirit reigning; 
and everybody began to shout about Renaissance ! 
while all the time the painters, musicians, sculptors, 
architects, vied one with the other to supply the 
88 



THE HOOLIGAN REIGNS o 


demand—that all these things should be so made 
that all people could recognize them as having 
something to do with themselves. 

Up sprang portraits with flushed faces, eyes 
which bulged, mouths which leered, fingers itching 
to come out of their frames, wrists which exposed 
the pulse; all the colours higgledy-piggledy; all 
the lines in hubbub, like the ravings of lunacy. 
Form breaks into panic; the calm and cool whisper 
of life in trance which once had breathed out such 
an ineffable hope is heated, fired into a blaze and 
destroyed, and in its place— realism, the blunt 
statement of life, something everybody misunder¬ 
stands while recognizing. And all far from the 
purpose of art: for its purpose is not to reflect 
the actual facts of this life, because it is not the 
custom of the artist to walk behind things, having 
won it as his privilege to walk in front of them— 
to lead. Rather should life reflect the likeness 
of the spirit, for it was the spirit which first chose 
the artist to chronicle its beauty. 1 And in that 
picture, if the form be that of the living, on account 
of its beauty and tenderness, the colour for it must 
be sought from that unknown land of the imagina¬ 
tion, and what is that but the land where dwells 
that which we call Death ? So it is not lightly and 
flippantly that I speak of puppets and their power 
to retain the beautiful and remote expressions in 

1 “ All forms are perfect in the poet’s mind : but these are 
not abstracted or compounded from Nature; they are from 
Imagination.”— William Blake. 

89 





P U N C H 




form and face even when subjected to a patter of 
praise, a torrent of applause. There are persons 
who have made a jest of these puppets. “ Puppet ” 
is a term of contempt, though there still re¬ 
main some who find beauty in these little figures, 
degenerate though they have become. 

To speak of a puppet with most men and women 
is to cause them to giggle. They think at once 
of the wires; they think of the stiff hands and the 
jerky movements; they tell me it is “ a funny little 
doll.” But let me tell them a few things about 
these puppets. Let me again repeat that they are 
the descendants of a great and noble family of 
Images, images which were indeed made “ in the 
likeness of God;” and that many centuries ago 
these figures had a rhythmical movement and not 
a jerky one; had no need for wires to support them, 
nor did they speak through the nose of the hidden 
manipulator. [Poor Punch, I mean no slight to 
you ! You stand alone, dignified in your despair, 
as you look back across the centuries with painted 
tears still wet upon your ancient cheeks, and you 
seem to cry out appealingly to your dog: “ Sister 
Anne, Sister Anne, is nobody coming ? ” And then 
with that superb bravado of yours, you turn the 
force of our laughter (and my tears) upon yourself 
with the heartrending shriek of “ Oh my nose ! 
Oh my nose ! Oh my nose ! ”] Did you think, 
ladies and gentlemen, that these puppets were 
always little things of but a foot high ? 

90 



ON THE BANKS OF THE GANGES 


Indeed, no ! The puppet had once a more gener¬ 
ous form than yourselves. 

Do you think that he kicked his feet about on 
a little platform six feet square, made to resemble 
a little old-fashioned theatre, so that his head 
almost touched the top of the proscenium ? and 
do you think that he always lived in a little house 
where the door and windows were as small as a 
doll’s house, with painted window-blinds parted 
in the centre, and where the flowers of his little 
garden had courageous petals as big as his head ? 
Try and dispel this idea altogether from your minds, 
and let me tell you something of his habitation. 

In Asia lay his first kingdom. On the banks of 
the Ganges they built him his home, a vast palace 
springing from column to column into the air and 
pouring from column to column down again into 
the water. Surrounded by gardens spread warm 
and rich with flowers and cooled by fountains; 
gardens into which no sounds entered, in which 
hardly anything stirred. Only in the cool and 
private chambers of this palace the swift minds 
of his attendants stirred incessantly. Something 
they were making which should become him, 
something to honour the spirit which had given 
him birth. And then, one day, the ceremony. 

In this ceremony he took part; a celebration 
once more in praise of the Creation; the old thanks¬ 
giving, the hurrah for existence, and with it the 
sterner hurrah for the privilege of the existence 
91 



THE THANKSGIVING CEREMONY 


to come, which is veiled by the word Death. And 
during this ceremony there appeared before the 
eyes of the brown worshippers the symbols of all 
things on earth and in Nirvana. The symbol of 
the beautiful tree, the symbol of the hills, the sym¬ 
bols of those rich ores which the hills contained; 
the symbol of the cloud, of the wind, and of all 
swift moving things; the symbol of the quickest 
of moving things, of thought, of remembrance; 
the symbol of the animal, the symbol of Buddha 
and of Man—and here he comes, the figure, the 
puppet at whom you all laugh so much. You laugh 
at him to-day because none but his weaknesses are 
left to him. He reflects these from you; but you 
would not have laughed had you seen him in his 
prime, in that age when he was called upon to 
be the symbol of man in the great ceremony, 
and, stepping forward, was the beautiful figure of 
our heart’s delight. If we should laugh at and 
insult the memory of the puppet, we should be 
laughing at the fall that we have brought about 
in ourselves—laughing at the beliefs and images we 
have broken. A few centuries later, and we find 
his home a little the worse for wear. From a 
temple, it has become, I will not say a theatre, but 
something between a temple and a theatre, and he 
is losing his health in it. Something is in the air; 
his doctors tell him he must be careful. “ And 
what am I to fear most ? ” he asks them. They 
answer him: “ Fear most the vanity of men.” He 
thinks: “ But that is what I myself have always 
92 



THE FALL 




«£> 


taught, that we who celebrated in joy this our 
existence, should have this one great fear. Is it 
possible that I, one who has ever revealed this 
truth, should be one to lose sight of it and should 
myself be one of the first to fall ? Clearly some 
subtle attack is to^ be made on me. I will keep 
my eyes upon the heavens.” And he dismisses 
his doctors and ponders upon it. 

And now let me tell you who it was that came 
to disturb the calm air which surrounded this 
curiously perfect thing. It is on record that 
somewhat later he took up his abode on the Far 
Eastern coast, and there came two women to look 
upon him. And at the ceremony to which they 
came he glowed with such earthly splendour and 
yet such unearthly simplicity, that though he 
proved an inspiration to the thousand nine hundred 
and ninety-eight souls who participated in the festi¬ 
val, an inspiration which cleared the mind even as 
it intoxicated, yet to these two women it proved 
an intoxication only. He did not see them, his 
eyes were fixed on the heavens; but he charged 
them full of a desire too great to be quenched; 
the desire to stand as the direct symbol of the 
divinity in man. No sooner thought than done; 
and arraying themselves as best they could in 
garments (“ like his ” they thought), moving with 
gestures (“ like his ” they said) and being able to 
cause wonderment in the minds of the beholders 
(“ even as he does ” they cried), they built them¬ 
selves a temple (“ like his,” “ like his ”), and 
93 



GU S H N OT LOV E o 

supplied the demand of the vulgar, the whole thing 
a poor parody. 

This is on record. It is the first record in the 
East of the actor. The actor springs from the 
foolish vanity of two women who were not strong 
enough to look upon the symbol of godhead with¬ 
out desiring to tamper with it; and the parody 
proved profitable. In fifty or a hundred years 
places for such parodies were to be found in all 
parts of the land. 

Weeds, they say, grow quickly, and that wilder¬ 
ness of weeds, the modern theatre, soon sprang up. 
The figure of the divine puppet attracted fewer 
and fewer lovers, and the women were quite the 
latest thing. With the fading of the puppet 
and the advance of these women who exhibited 
themselves on the stage in his place, came that 
darker spirit which is called Chaos, and in its wake 
the triumph of the riotous personality. Do you see, 
then, what has made me love and learn to value that 
which to-day we call the “ puppet ” and to detest 
that which we call “ life ” in art ? I pray earnestly 
for the return of the image—the fiber-marionette 
to the Theatre; and when he comes again and is 
but seen, he will be loved so well that once more 
will it be possible for the people to return to their 
ancient joy in ceremonies—once more will Creation 
be celebrated—homage rendered to existence—and 
divine and happy intercession made to Death. 

Florence : March 1907 . 


94 



SOME EVIL TENDENCIES 
OF THE MODEEN THEATEE 


S I step before you to speak about the Theatre 



do not mistake me for a reformer. I beg of 
you do not do that. When I become a reformer— 
that is to say, a surgeon and a physician in one 
—I shall take Hamlet’s advice and “ reform it 
altogether,” beginning with myself and ending 
with the limelight man. 

But to be a reformer one must be in the position 
of a reformer; that is to say, one must have at least 
half-a-dozen or a dozen theatres in different parts 
of the world, so that the reforms spread evenly. 
Two small progressive theatres in Paris, London 
or Berlin are quite useless towards improving the 
state of things in the Theatre, its state as an art and 
an institution. Those who live in London or Berlin 
know very little what is passing in the two French 
theatres. Those who live in Paris and London have 
seldom heard of the Berlin theatres. And those 
who live in Berlin and Paris hardly know that 
any such theatres exist in England. And so it is 
that these gallant little theatres, which make daily 
efforts to improve the state of things, bring about 
no marked nor lasting improvement, because all 
their energy and occasional good deeds eva¬ 
porate after a few thousand people have left the 
theatre. And the Art of the Theatre still remains 
unknown. 


95 



NOT A REFORMER o 


It would be quite another matter (and I should 
be unable to write as I do) if any of these theatres 
had discovered Laws for the Art of the Theatre; for 
these theatres to be unknown, unheard of, would 
matter but little to the men who are busy all the 
time searching for the truths which are the basis of 
all things. One of the evil tendencies of the modern 
theatre is to forget this entirely, to aim at being 
heard of for a few months and years, to make 
an effort in front of a full audience for a few 
thousand evenings, and there an end. To reform 
this would it not need the headlong strength of 
some profoundly stupid giant ? 

I write, then, as an onlooker, not as a casual 
onlooker nor as an irritable one, but more as one 
who takes a loving interest in watching the growth 
of plants in a beautiful garden. The eye of such 
a man is instantly arrested by the weeds. Nothing 
seems so foolish or so abominable to him as the 
weeds which absorb the goodness from the soil, 
robbing the other plants of that goodness and 
altogether spoiling the beauty of the garden; and 
it is the weeds, the evil tendencies of the modern 
theatre, that I am concerned with here. 

Bear in mind that when I speak of the Theatre 
I do not allude especially to what is called the 
English theatre; nor do I mean that which they call 
the French theatre; I do not particularly mean 
what is called the German theatre, nor the Italian, 
Scandinavian nor Russian theatres. All theatres 
96 



THE WESTERN THEATRE 


of all lands are alike in all things except language, 
and, alas! the weeds so closely resemble each other 
that it is positively comic. 

I speak then of the Theatre as a whole, the 
Theatre of Europe and America, for I have seen 
none other; though I/believe, from what I hear, 
that the Eastern Theatre abstains from offending 
the intelligence. 

The tendency of the Western Theatre is to dis¬ 
regard the vital principles of the art: To invent or 
borrow with haste so-called reforms which may 
attract the public, not those which are necessary 
to the health of the art: To encourage piracy and 
imitation instead of cultivating natural resource: 
To take the keys of the place from their rightful 
keepers, the artists, and to hand them over to the 
“ business man ” or anyone. 

I write, as I say, as an onlooker, but I have been 
for over fifteen years a worker in the theatre. 
This I say for the benefit of those who may not 
know, and who question my authority for these 
statements. 

I have many times written that there is only one 
way to obtain unity in the Art of the Theatre. I 
suppose it is unnecessary to explain why unity 
should be there as in other great arts; I suppose 
it offends no one to admit that unless unity reigns 
“ chaos is come again; I suppose this is quite 
clear;—?—! Very well, then. So far, so good. And 
it should not be difficult to make clear how this 
97 


H 



^ A LIST OF WORKERS o 


unity is to be obtained. I have attempted this in 
my book, The Art of the Theatre and now I wish 
to make clear by what process unity is lost. 

Let me make a list (an incomplete one, but it 
will serve) of the different workers in the theatre. 
When I have made this list I will tell you how many 
are head-cooks and how they assist in the spoiling 
of the broth. 

First and foremost, there is the proprietor of the 
theatre. Secondly, there is the business manager 
who rents the theatre. Thirdly, there is the stage- 
director, sometimes three or four of these. There 
are also three or four business men. Then we come 
to the chief actor and the chief actress. Then we 
have the actor and the actress who are next to the 
chief; that is to say, who are ready to step into 
their places if required. Then there are from 
twenty to sixty other actors and actresses. Besides 
this, there is a gentleman who designs scenes. 
Another who designs costumes. A third who 
devotes his time to arranging lights. A fourth 
who attends to the machinery (generally the 
hardest worker in the theatre). And then we have 
from twenty to a hundred under-workers, scene- 
painters, costume makers, limelight manipulators, 
dressers, scene-shifters, under machinists, extra 
ladies and gentlemen, cleaners, programme sellers: 
and there we have the bunch. 

Now look carefully at this list. We see seven 

1 See page 137. 

98 



SEVEN DIRECTORS INSTEAD OF ONE 


heads and two very influential members. Seven 
directors instead of one, and nine opinions instead 
of one. 

Now , then , it is impossible for a work of art ever to 
be produced where more ( than one brain is permitted 
to direct; and if works of art are not seen in the Theatre 
this one reason is a sufficient one , though there are 
plenty more. 

Do you wish to know why there are seven masters 
instead of one ? It is because there is no one man 
in the theatre who is a master in himself, that is to 
say, there is no one man capable of inventing and 
rehearsing a play : capable of designing and super¬ 
intending the construction of both scenery and 
costume : of writing any necessary music : of invent¬ 
ing such machinery as is needed and the lighting 
that is to be used. 

No manager of a theatre has made these things 
his study; and it is a disgrace to the Western Theatre 
that this statement can be made. You have but 
to ask any manager in London, Berlin or Paris 
whether he can invent the drama which is to be 
presented in his theatre. Or ask him whether he 
can invent and design the scenes which are to be 
shown on his stage. Or ask him whether he knows 
anything about historic or imaginative costume; 
and whether he knows a beautiful colour from an 
ugly one. Whether he can even combine lovely 
tones and colours together so as to form a whole, 
and whether he knows anything of the hand, the 
H 2 99 



NOT ASSISTANTS BUT MASTERS 


wrist, the arm, the neck, and all the rest of the 
values of the body in movement. Ask him 
whether he knows how much light is sufficient to 
fully illumine twenty cubic feet, and how much 
will oversight twenty cubic feet and so waste the 
light. Ask him if he knows the weight of wood 
and cloth, or if he can tell you how swiftly or 
how slowly a stage floor is able to be raised or 
lowered. Ask him any of these ordinary things, 
and he will blandly tell you that it is not his 
business. And then this remarkable master of the 
Art of the Theatre will call up his co-workers, and, 
pointing to them, he will say, “ These are my 
assistants.” 

He is not speaking the truth. They are not his 
assistants, they are his masters. They lead him 
with a hook in his nose like the great Leviathan 
which we see in pictures of the older day pageants. 
He looks mighty terrible, but he is only made of 
emptiness covered with paste-board. Is not this 
a fine master ? Is not this a pretty way to obtain 
this same unity, this one thing vital to the art ? 

So then we have to turn to the six other masters, 
each of whom helps towards the patchwork, and 
see if they will help us to a reasonable answer. 
The regisseur, or stage-manager, is under the delu¬ 
sion that in truth he is the one who is the artist, 
the inventor, the master, but, poor fellow, he is 
nothing of the kind, for no one is the master : each 
throwing into the broth whatever ingredient he 
100 



THE REGISSEURS 


<Z> 




will. All are petty masters, each hindering the 
other. Many of the r^gisseurs, or stage-managers, 
are known to me. I have worked with some; 
others I have spoken with; but all are under the 
delusion that I mentiofi. It is a kind of delusion 
of despair, for regisseurs are really very good 
workers and spare themselves no pains when they 
are in the theatre. They should have spared no 
pains to prepare themselves for their task before 
entering the theatre. 

As our questions to the director of the theatre 
met with such a lamentable reply, let us see whether 
the regisseur, or stage-manager, will be able to give 
us a better answer. Let us ask him, let us ask any 
regisseur in Europe or America, if he can imagine 
and invent that which is to be presented to the 
audience; that is to say, the piece, the play, the 
idea, or whatever you may call it. Let us ask him 
whether he can design the scenes and costumes for 
that piece, and whether he can superintend their 
construction—that is to say, whether he knows the 
secrets of line and colour and their manipulation. 
Let us ask him whether he can direct without the 
aid of experts the different workmen who are 
employed on account of their utility, not on 
account of their imagination. And if there is one 
such man in Europe or America who can reply 
“ Yes ” to all these questions, he is the man to 
whom the control of the stages of Europe and 
America should be offered; for such a man would be 
101 



THE SEARCH FOR UNITY 


able to acquire the same capacities as himself, for 
he would know what was necessary. And when 
you have ten such men in Europe you have a new 
Theatre. But there are not ten, as you will find out 
if you ask. I could not tell you the name of one. 

And so it is that unity, as I have said, is absent 
from the Art of the Theatre. 

Yet there are several brains in the theatre who 
know that if they could find the secret which would 
produce this unity they would have discovered a 
very good deed. In Germany there are a few 
such men searching in the topmost branches of 
the tree. But, as they do not think to search at 
the roots, their search leads them into strange 
acts. They mean very well, but they act very 
queerly. They are red-hot in the pursuit, but they 
run blindfold. 

The tendency of these men is to borrow. They 
borrow from every conceivable source. They 
borrow from the painters, they borrow from the 
architects, they even borrow from their own fellows, 
any idea, so long as it is attractive; and so long 
as the idea has a plain enough base on which to 
build a little structure of sense, it is quickly trans¬ 
ferred into the theatre. 

What a way for one who wishes to be called an 
artist to act! Clever artists illustrating week after 
week in the comic papers of Germany find their 
ideas seized on and thrust upon the stage of the 
modem theatre. “ Jugend ” decorates Shakespeare 
102 



^ THE STUDIO PAINTERS 


and Bernard Shaw, and “ Simplicissimus ” is useful 
for Gorky and Wedekind. 

These things are experimental and rash innova¬ 
tions, dangerous alike to the art and to the public. 
Hastiness characterizes all things in the theatre of 
to-day; hasty reforms, hasty preparation, hasty 
ideas as hastily carried out. The directors show 
an eagerness to-day to secure the studio painters 
to design scenes for them. 

How strange this is ! Do they not see that they 
are inviting into their theatre that which in time 
will turn and rend it asunder, adding a fresh wound 
to an already mutilated corpse ? 

Do they not also see that to invite the studio 
painters into the theatre is an insult to those scene- 
painters whose families have worked in the theatre 
for hundreds of years ? and do they not also see that 
the peculiar merit of the studio painter is of no avail 
inside a theatre, and that to engage a man who 
paints the side of a house would be a shrewder act 
on their part ? One curious side of this question 
of the painter being invited to co-operate in the 
theatre is that I am looked on as supporting the 
tendency, and, in fact, am pointed out as an 
example of the success which attends the move¬ 
ment, whereas I am against the whole thing from 
beginning to end. 

If the painter could bring any release for the art 
which lies so bound, firstly by convention, secondly 
by the unintelligence and incapacity of those who 
103 



THEY BRING NO RELEASE 


are supposed to be its masters (?), then their coming 
would be a welcome thing; but it is not release they 
bring; they bring one more fetter. It is not their 
fault to offer their service; it is our fault to accept 
it. We borrow and we borrow and we borrow. 
We are already so much in debt that we are nearly 
in despair. And we are in such haste. Why, this 
even makes the borrowing careless. The bad is 
copied as swiftly and as thoughtlessly as the good. 
Any picture, any design, provided it is flashy 
enough or eccentric enough, is seized on by these 
hasty and thoughtless directors and regisseurs, 
squeezed, and its juice, bitter or sweet, extracted 
from it. Yet this hurrying and blundering is not 
so strange, after all, and any one who has lived a 
year in a theatre can understand it. Day—after¬ 
noon—evening—night: these gentlemen of the 
theatre are continually on the rush. (I am speaking 
of the modern theatres; which are supposed to be 
in the advance.) Rehearsing in the morning, see¬ 
ing people in the midday, studying parts, looking 
at scenery, play reading, attending receptions, an 
author to see, a critic to entertain, an artist to 
catch, incessant quarrels to smooth over, at least 
one new play to be brought out each month, capital 
to find, building to superintend, always one inces¬ 
sant hustle. 

Where, then, is the time to stop and consider 
about the art of the thing ? This may do very well 
for an oil business or a large grocery; these things 
thrive by hustling : not so an art. In this haste all 
104 



JULIXTS CAESAR 
Act III. Scene II. 

The Forum. 

Here we see Mark Antony addressing half Rome. A hundred 
thousand citizens are seen at the back; Mark Antony leans towards 
them and away from us, and you hear his shrill, high voice. In the 
front, nearest us, there is silence. There the conspirators wait. 

There is no example of Roman architecture here, for Shake¬ 
speare never insists on accuracy of detail. Besides, who knows now 
what the Forum looked like, so why attempt to be accurate about 
the Past when to be so is impossible? 

All I felt was the crowd, and the two parties. I had to bring all 
these in and divide them so that we should feel the divisions clearly. 
I put the crowd farthest off because, although a hundred thousand 
voices can drown one voice when it is between you and the speaker f 
still, a hundred thousand voices make an excellent background to the 
voice of a personality. For instance, I never knew distant thunder, 
however mighty it was, to interrupt a conversation. 

The man who is persuading the crowd is in the middle distance. 

Those against whom he is persuading them are in the foreground. 

Then silence can be felt. 




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at ceix 1 '} '•'■*- ■■'• •’■■■' 

author to at* a ©n : . to an ^ 

catoh, in. cose ant quarrels > r o smooth over* at least 
Oi m* lay to be brought out eax .• ■ capital 

; • d, building t : superin tr always one inces¬ 
sant bustle* 

Wheru then, is the ti >p nd cousd r 

•uutthe u: of thethbg ' ‘ is may do 

,vi oil b - :-or- or a «/• » • v; Utese Ihpigs l 

oy bustling : not «o a *• . i. In t u te- •' ••'■’ 














































































































































































BE GON COURT—HUGO—GOETHE—BUM AS 


thought of the principles or the beauty of the art 
is lost sight of and all desire to produce beauty 
departs. ^ 

After all, we must admit that beauty by the side 
of intrigue is but a poor sort of a thing to follow; 
and a sort of burlesque intrigue is the goddess of 
the theatre of to-day. Burlesque intrigue, that is 
exactly the class of diplomacy in the theatre, and 
how seriously these little imitation diplomatists go 
about their work ! 

It is very curious to read in De Goncourt’s 
Memoirs of the impression the two brothers 
received when they wished to honour the theatre 
by bringing their work on to its stage. Edmond 
de Goncourt, a true courtier of distinction, sur¬ 
rounded by these burlesque diplomatists of the 
theatre, what a picture he paints for us ! How 
keenly we feel, when reading the account of his 
different interviews with these gentlemen, how 
vulgar and contemptible the situation must have 
been. 

It horrifies and disgusts me to think that for ever 
and for ever and for ever such men as De Goncourt, 
De Musset, Victor Hugo, Dumas, Goethe, Browning, 
and all the great writers and all the men of truest 
distinction in the world should be put in such a 
humiliating position; and not only is it that which 
disgusts me, but it is shameful that it is ever the 
Theatre which should put these men in this position. 
Must the Theatre continually cry out that it con¬ 
tains none but the fifth-rate men ? Must the men 
105 



TWO TENDENCIES o 


of the theatre continually act when in the presence 
of other artists ? And if they act, must they for 
ever continue to act ignominiously, so that the 
whole world cries out: “ Behold an actor, and a 
damn bad actor into the bargain ! ” The actor has 
lately been priding himself that he has raised him¬ 
self from the old position when he was held as 
a vagabond and a thief. This is especially the 
case in England. Would to goodness that he had 
remained a vagabond and a thief, so that he had 
not lost his distinction; for to become a gentleman 
in name, but grow vulgar to the core, is to be many 
times worse than a vagabond and a thief. 

Let the Theatre drop its stupid games of amateur 
diplomacy. When it does its work itself there will 
be no longer need for anything of the kind. When 
it drops this bad habit it will have time to attend to 
the things which are of more importance, and it will 
have then the spirit to look at things squarely. 

But, now, to return to the tendency to invite the 
painters and other artists to assist us in our work, 
and the haste which characterizes everything we 
do. These two tendencies have driven the best 
workers out of the theatre. Century after century 
the artists of the theatre, despairing of ever seeing 
the stage awaken from its state of drunken lethargy, 
depart from the theatre and go elsewhere. 

The result is that to-day there are no more artists 
in the theatre. The heads of the theatre are always 
men with a certain amount of business capacity; 
we may, in fact, call them business men. 

106 



THE BUSINESS MAN o 


The business man employs one or two people who 
know what a tree looks like as distinguished from 
a cat, and of course that is very useful. And so 
when the business man wants a tree his workman 
brings him one. How simple ! When he wants a 
forest, say, in A Midsummer Night's Dream , his 
man brings him one. He does not paint one, of 
course not! That would be risky; risky and diffi¬ 
cult. No, he has asked for a forest, and his man 
brings him the real and original thing, tree by tree. 
“ There you are, Mr. Manager, there’s your forest 
for you,” and Mr. Manager replies, “ By Jingo, so it 
is ! What a magnificent artist you are ! ” And then 
he runs out into the highways and byways, having 
first put on his celluloid cuffs, and says to all his 
relations and customers : “ Walk up, gentlemen ! 
come and look at the scene which I have prepared 
for you ! Have you ever seen a scene like that ? 
I flatter myself that Nature can’t do better.” And 
his customers gasp. They gasp at the innocence 
of the man. All they can politely say to him is: 
“ It is very realistic ” ! And so through this crass 
innocence, realism reigns in the theatre, for the 
people are ever polite. 

Not only does the manager demand a forest and 
is supplied with one, but he says to his actors: “ Why 
don’t you walk about and talk like ordinary beings ? 
Be natural! Be natural! Be natural! ” And 
he will applaud any little mistake like tripping over 
the carpet, or falling off a chair, if it is an accident, 
and will say: “ Oh ! capital ! capital ! that’s most 
107 



ART AND REALISM 






natural! Put that in every evening.” Anything to 
get a sense of chance there. The idea of make- 
believe seems to him a preposterous idea when he 
can get the real thing. In England when he wants 
an army he sends one of his assistants to bring him 
half-a-dozen men from the so-and-so regiment and 
puts them into the armour of the Barusch period. 
He never thinks of training all his men to appear 
military as soldiers are. He doesn’t reason in that 
way at all, but keeps on repeating: “ What’s the 
good of imitation when you can get the real article? ” 

And what is the good if you want the real 
article? Realism does want the real article, and 
art has nothing whatever to do with realism. There 
are people who hold that realism on the stage is not 
the bringing of real things in front of you. If it is 
not this, what is it ? 

Let us try to state. Let us say that when we 
make a realistic production we aim to put into a 
semi-real shape that which is already quite real. 
We aim to invest it with something lifelike, so that 
it appears to have a pulse in it, flesh and blood, and 
to possess other actual qualities. And now one 
turns to the real thing to find what we have to copy. 
We gaze long at a face. We see it is not beautiful, 
that it is not strong, that it is not healthy, and that 
it is everything which art detests. We look closely 
at a tree. We see it is in decay, that the leaves are 
falling, that it is half a skeleton. We look carefully 
at a building, we are struck by the quantity of 
108 



REALISM IS CARICATURE 


bricks used and overcome by the thought of the 
labour and pain it mu$t have cost to put all the 
bricks in the right place. And so we find that to 
look closely at reality is to be terrified by what we 
see; and, if not terrified, saddened. How unreason¬ 
able it is to say that the artist exists to copy the 
defects and blemishes of Nature ! How ridiculous 
to say that man is gifted with vision in order to 
chronicle faults ! To say that faults are beautiful 
and defects are charming is a platitude. They may 
or may not be, but not in art. Do they, perhaps, 
make a work of art more interesting ? I think not. 
One may say only that they are a trifle comic, and 
that is all. And so in time realism produces and 
ends in the comic—realism is caricature. The 
theatre, with its realism, will end in the music- 
hall, for realism cannot go upwards, but always 
tends downwards. Down it goes until we reach 
the depths. And then, Anarchy! Ariel is de¬ 
stroyed and Caliban reigns. 

And I do not really believe there is very much to 
be done; not that I am at all a pessimist in regard 
to the art, because I know well enough that this 
will emerge unaided in due time; but there is not 
very much to be done at present by the people who 
are now in power, for if they began “ doing things ” 
they would probably only make matters worse 
instead of better. Affectation would be added to 
vulgarity. 

Something may be done by the younger men, but 
109 



WHAT IS BEING DONE o 


not if they are under the influence of their elders, 
because then you get an old young man. Some¬ 
thing is being done in England at the miniature 
Court Theatre, but the influence of the author is 
too strong there, an author who uses the theatre 
for purposes of reclame . Something is being done 
in the Deutches Theater in Berlin, but the influence 
of Jugend and Simplicissimus and Business men 
is too throng there. Besides, that theatre shows 
signs of the borrowing fever at a dreadfully high 
temperature. Then there is also the little Art 
Theatre in Moscow; full of energy, loving realism 
so well that they even turn realism itself into a joke. 
Then there is Antoine’s Theatre and the Theatre 
des Arts, the two solitary efforts of Paris; but how 
little is achieved can be gauged by some of the last 
productions there. 

If all these little theatres were moving forward in 
the same direction, all of them having one common 
idea and following one code of laws , then some little 
good might be expected, because they would all be 
in unison and in harmony; and the old-fashioned 
theatre with its plays and its scenery and its real 
actors would certainly be improved. 

To expect what ought to happen, to expect the 
managers of these theatres to meet in council and 
to take an oath of allegiance to serve no other Muse 
but the Muse of their art, no longer to remain in 
bondage to the Muse of Literature or Painting, but 
to strike the first new note in honour of their own 
110 





THE LACK OF FORM 




Goddess, this ideal hope can only remain a dream, 
for man is vain and selfish; and besides, the Laws 
of the Art have not been inscribed. And it is 
because of this, because the Laws have not been 
inscribed, because neither the priests nor the wor¬ 
shippers know the Laws, that all action is useless at 
present . The Laws must be discovered and 
recorded. Not what each of us personally takes to 
be the law, but what it actually is. We can come 
to no disappointment by finding out. If all of us 
fail to find the thing and one comes along who makes 
it clear, who will there be to deny him ? The 
worst of it is that no one wants to find the law now¬ 
adays, but everyone wants to force his own ideas, 
trumpery or the reverse, upon the rest, or to make 
money. A great vanity and a petty selfishness tie 
our tongues and our brains. 

What the Art of the Theatre (or rather we must 
call it the Work of the Theatre at present) lacks is 
form . It spreads, it wanders, it has no form. It 
is this which makes the difference between the work 
of the Theatre and the fine arts. To say that it 
lacks form is to say that it lacks beauty. In art, 
where there is no form there can be no beauty. 

How then can it obtain this form ? Only by 
developing slowly under the laws. And these 
laws ? I have searched for them, and I believe I 
am finding some of them 

1908 . 


Ill 



PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS 
PICTURES AND PAINTERS 
IN THE THEATRE a 0 


HEREVER I go and however intelligent or 



▼ V unintelligent the people may be, and how¬ 
ever carefully they have read what I have written 
upon the Theatre, the eternal question comes back 
over and over again—sometimes aggressively put 
to one, sometimes nicely put: “ Do you want to 
sweep away all the plays out of the theatre ? Do 
you find the idea of the poet in the theatre offen¬ 
sive ? Please say what is the meaning of this 
extraordinary idea of yours, that that which has 
been good for hundreds of years is suddenly to be 
held as bad.” It is exceedingly difficult to reply 
to all this, and as it is exceedingly difficult let us 
try to do so. 

Of course to me the whole question is so clear 
that it ceases to be a question any longer. It 
has become the obvious with me that when a man 
sets his hand to a work he should not take by 
the wrist another man’s hand and use it to 
do the work in question, and then call it his 
work. 

The whole thing is so obvious to me that, in order 
to be able to reply carefully and sensibly to those 
to whom it is not obvious, I must remove myself 
from the picture before me, and see every line in 
the pictures which the others see. And if I try to 


112 



“ HUNGER.” A Drama 
Scene I.—The Servants. 

I have another design for this Drama in another place in this 
hoohy and have written there all that is necessary concerning it 
(See illustration facing page 262 .) 


PICTURES . 
* Y THE TI 


PLAY WEIGHTS 
A S > PAINTEES 


unintelligent > ? may be, and Iw- 

ever carefully they h l *h*t I have written 

upon the Theatre, th* ration a les l ack 


amhQ A ".EaO^lJH 1 * ? Do 

.gf'/’AvnaP 3 hT—. 1 avisos b1:*c offen^ 

isfy s\ acw&Sa; TOsVtostD A zh\i to\ 'isflic i<D ml \ 

ai iuAJ Sk> ytiM sisttrw soA V>tf» t ^oo-5 


> -i.V.. ti • .. ■ 


sets hns ha. v * nit he sheo . by 

the wrist : k>u, uni ids hand . .a to 
do the woi : •• ‘f.' ua, and then c 1 it hw 
work. 

The whole thing is so obviom to me that, n oi dor 


to be able to reply carefully and sensibly to those 
to whom i$ not obvious, >-c remove tny- i 
* the picture before me, and every j i n 


-:or r^ctarcs which the 


ad if : t; 



























A FRONT ROW IN A LONDON PIT 


do that I shall have to see some very dull 
things, and discuss some very dull points, which 
are obvious to most of us ; but if the question 
has to be gone into at all perhaps this is 
inevitable. 

I have a horrible dread of proving people to be 
wrong, especially the man who takes the arts 
easily. I have more than a large appreciation of 
his good sense. Besides, I do not want to prove 
that the man who goes to the pit to see Richard 
the Third is wrong for going there, no matter what 
his reason is. 

Let us take the whole front row of the London 
pit, consisting of twenty people. 

Ask them the reason why they have come to the 

theatre. Five reply, 44 I come to see Mr.-act.” 

Three reply, 44 It is such a great play, I like to hear 
it so much.” Two giggle and reply, 44 We don’t 
know why we come, but we think it is such fun.” 
Two are there from a sense of duty both to the actors 
of the play and to the audience; and the other 
eight will give us several elaborate and conflicting 
reasons for their presence. 

One will say, that it is the extraordinary sense 
of the impossible, the grim absurdity of the 
whole thing, which fascinates him. (Excellent 
judge !) 

The second will tell you that, after having spent 
the day among dull and matter-of-fact people, it is 
quite interesting to find a body of people who will 
i 113 




THE CRITICAL MAN ^ 


sit still while actors and scenery are pretending on 
the stage. 

Then there is the third, the critical man ; one 
who having read how Edmund Kean illuminated 
Shakespeare by sudden flashes of genius, and that 
the Kemble family were of the “ classical ” school, 
and that Charles Fechter was a romantic actor; 
and having read a history of the stage which skips 
over the first couple of thousand years in two pages 
and only begins to go into detail when it comes to 
the Shakespearean era—this man will be there, 
because somehow he feels that the thing would be 
incomplete without him; he is one of the men who 
know—has he not read all about it ? 

Then next to him is sitting a young lady, 
who, with the intelligence which is natural in her 
sex, is ready to see all that is there and more (or 
less) if required; and yet indeed she leans towards 
the “ more ” and is ever the champion of the 
u more ” when she finds it. 

Next to her sits the grumbler, one who goes to 
a theatre because he must, and who, I believe, is 
always the one who is most deeply moved by what 
he sees. Yet when the curtain is once down he 
will tell you that was not the way to do it at all. 
“ Why,” he says, “ the actors are so many sticks; 
nothing real about them.” He draws our attention 
to the flapping scenery and grumbles about the 
incidental music which he says spoils the effect; 
and he detests all those flashing lights, which he 
114 



THE GRUMBLER ^ 

says spoil the illusion. But what illusion is 
destroyed he is totally unable to define. The rest 
of the row say that it is very nice indeed, and they 
all applaud heartily, while he continues to grunt 
and mumble, and keeps on repeating that “ that 
isn’t the way to do it.” 

And so we see that very nearly each single man 
or woman is come there for a different purpose, 
sees the thing in a different light, and composes 
what we can term an “ audience; ” that is to say, 
a single idea—that audience which the actor always 
looks on as one man, and which we must accept as 
the “ ideal spectator.” 

One thing is irrefutable. They cannot keep 
away from the theatre. And another thing which 
we must admit is this : that out of the twenty, 
fifteen have come to see something. I will even 
go so far as to say that the entire twenty have come 
to see something; because the first on our list, 
the first five who came to hear Shakespeare more 
or less admit that they came to see it performed, 
for had they wished they could have joined the 
many thousands who sit at home and read it 
silently, and in this way hear it in their mind’s 
ear with all its amazing and wonderful accom¬ 
paniment; or joined those who read it together 
in societies. 

So we can say somewhat surely that all have 
come to see the play. This desire is as fierce as 
any in the nature of man. Only when seeing does 
12 115 



MACBETH 


o 




a man thoroughly believe. There are innumerable 
proofs of this, and many will occur to you at this 
moment without my mentioning them. So now, 
it is reasonable to ask that that which the people 
desire, and go to the theatre to find, should be given 
to them. 

They go to see something; they should be shown 
it. Only by showing them will they be satisfied. 
Therefore I hold that properly to satisfy their eye, 
and through that their being, we should not con¬ 
fuse them or confuse their sense of sight, which is 
most delicate, by pounding at the same time at 
their ears with music or with words, nor by attack¬ 
ing their minds with problems and shaking their 
bodies with passions. 

Let us take something as an example of what 
I mean : that part in the play of Macbeth where 
he prepares to nerve himself to rob King Duncan 
of his life. He is roaming about in and out of the 
dark corridors of his castle. Behind him, like his 
shadow, a servant moves, they pass and repass a 
window, and I think I see him gazing out a long 
time towards the heath. He continues his prowling, 
and then rests upon a stone bench. The servant, 
holding a trembling light, looks at him, and he 
looks back again. Once more he begins to pace 
the corridor; he is afraid to be left alone. He 
thinks of his wife, then becomes more afraid of 
being left quite alone. . . . “ Go, bid thy mistress, 
when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell.” 

116 



HIS VISION 






The servant departs. He continues to roam up 
and down. In his agitation the figure of his wife 
takes the place of his servant. He feels particu¬ 
larly fine; he has an audience; he seems to take 
courage and his desire warms in him. He will do 
it. The servant returns, startling him for an in¬ 
stant. “ Get thee to bed.” He watches the flame 
of the torch as it dwindles and dwindles, down the 
steps leading to the basement; a flame at first, it 
now became a streak—a streak. 


“ Is this a dagger that I see before me, 

The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee : 
T have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but 
A dagger of the mind ; a false creation 
Proceeding from the heat-oppressM brain ? 

I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
As that which now I draw. 

Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going. 

And such an instrument I was to use. 

Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, 

Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still; 

And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood 
Which was not so before.—There’s no such thing. 

It is the bloody business, which informs 
Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half world 
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
The curtain’d sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates 
Pale Hecate’s offerings ; and wither’d murder, 

Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf. 

Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace 
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design 

Moves like a ghost-Thou sure and firm-set earth 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
The very stones prate on my whereabout. 

And take the present horror from the time. 

Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat he lives: 

117 



ONE APPEAL RATHER THAN MANY 


Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 

(A bell rings.) 

I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 

That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. ” 

Now for what I mean. This same idea, these 
same figures, these same visions, can be better 
brought before the eye and so into the soul of the 
audience if the artist concentrates on that which 
appeals to the eye, than if that which appeals to 
the brain, and that which appeals to the ear, is 
making simultaneous confusion. 

It is difficult to read this one speech of Macbeth 
slowly, when other sounds and sights are exter¬ 
minated and we are quiet in our rooms, and get 
the full value of what Shakespeare has put there. 
We can read the speech three, four or five times, 
and then only is some of its worth caught by us. 
And having read this speech three, four, five times 
let anyone continue to read the entire play, and he 
will be as fatigued as though he had walked twenty 
miles. But he will have felt some of that which 
Shakespeare intended him to feel, though by no 
means all. That which he feels we shall not feel 
when we go to see the play performed in the 
theatres. 

When we read those lines we are not cramped 
within "three walls. We wander up to the top of 
the castle with Macbeth, we gaze across the rooky 
woods and across the hills; we can descend with 
him into the cellars, we may pass out and among 
118 



MACBETH 


Here is a design for a scene which is in two parts. 

The obvious question, always thoughtlessly put to me, is, whether 
people on the right of the theatre would see what was in the left-hand 
opening , and vice versa. 

It never occurs to some people that a theatre artist gives some of 
his time to making designs for modern theatre buildings—some of 
his time to designs for up-to-date buildings—and some of his time 
to buildings which sooner or later will be built. These people think 
an artist must be always “ on the make 

This scene was made for a building which before long is sure to 
be erected. 

1 have even made some designs for buildings which mankind 
never will erect. 

But surely there is time for all these things. It will help some one , 
if not myself, and it is surely still permitted to an artist to humour 
his fancy now and then. 

1 have also made designs for five or six different kinds of theatre 
buildings, and not merely designs but plans. 

And I actually have the “ impudence n to believe that these 
theatres will sooner or later all be tested by actual experiment. For 
what else have I worked ? 



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READING THE LINES o 


the bushes which bank themselves at the foot of 
the damp castle of Glamis. And if we only went 
so far with Shakespeare I should not have reason 
to object to the cramping in between three walls 
which we are subjected to in the theatre; for we 
should not be great losers. But when we read, we 
ride with Shakespeare upon the sightless couriers 
of the air. Pity, like a naked new-born babe, 
hangs in the air before us; we see the terrify¬ 
ing figure of “wither’d murder” with Tarquin’s 
ravishing strides passing before us; it seems 
to prowl round the room, the entire time we 
are reading. We hear the bell which strikes and 
rings the knell at the death of Duncan. As we sit 
in our room reading, the bell time after time booms 
out in the distance. Later, “ to-morrow and to¬ 
morrow and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace 
from day to day.” Round our room, outside the 
window, above us in the room over our head, 
creeps continually the to-morrow and to-morrow; 
and so, losing all this in the theatre, we are great 
losers. 

It is not people and things, but ideas which so 
surround and possess us as we sit and read. And 
when art is so great and so perfect that it can bring 
us on the mere reading such priceless magical 
things, it is little short of sacrilege to destroy that 
which produces those ideas by confusing us and 
our other senses by appealing to those other senses 
at the same time. 


119 



r 


IDEAS , NOT THINGS , POSSESS US 

How obvious this all should be. And so, al¬ 
though it is absurd to talk hopefully of the possi¬ 
bility that in a short time these plays may not be 
put on the stage, I would have them there but 
seldom, for the reason I have suggested, that on 
the stage we lose them. 

And there is another reason why I would not 
have them there, and it is this : the same idea, the 
same impression—the same beauty and philosophy, 
if you wish—can be put before the eyes of an 
audience without at the same time confusing their 
ideas through an appeal to their other senses. 

A man (we may call him Macbeth, though it 
does not matter what his name is) may be seen 
passing through all these doubts and fears—a 
figure in action; and round him other figures in 
action; and though we may not receive the superb 
impression which a master (which Shakespeare) 
gives us, we shall through our eyes receive a clearer 
impression than if the other senses were called 
upon at the same time to “ assist,” for, instead 
of assisting, they would confuse, as they ever do. 

Suppose we look at a picture by Signorelli, the 
famous one of the Berlin Gallery. I fail utterly to 
believe that a string quartett playing hard at the 
same time would assist our eyes; or that some one 
reciting to us simultaneously the “ Birth of Pan ” 
would bring out the qualities in. the picture. It 
would only confuse. 

Supposing we are listening to the Pastoral Sym- 
120 



THE INTRUDERS o 


phony by Beethoven. I do not believe that a 
panorama of hay-makers making hay, or a 
pleasant voice reading to us from Spenser’s 
Shtpheards Calendar would add in any way to 
the understanding or the enjoyment of those 
qualities which are in the Symphony. It would 
only confuse. 

Has it ever been tried ? No, indeed! The 
musicians have protected their garden well. The 
painters have protected theirs well. The theatre 
men have left their vineyard, and it has been an¬ 
nexed by any one who wished to make use of it. 
The playwrights made use of it once : Shakespeare, 
Moliere and the rest. Then Wagner took a fancy 
to the vineyard. Until to-day we find that the 
painter is actually making eyes at the little place; 
the painter, the man who has been given innumer¬ 
able myriads of acres, a little patch of which he had 
cultivated till now so exquisitely. But now both 
painter and musician, as well as the writer, have 
grown discontented, each with his vast possessions; 
and so the annexing goes on. 

And I am here to tell of this, and I claim the 
Theatre for those born in the Theatre, and we 
will have it ! To-day, or to-morrow, or in a 
hundred years, but we will have it! So you see 
I do not wish to remove the plays from the Stage 
from any affectations, but first because I hold that 
the plays are spoiled in the theatre, and secondly 
I hold that the plays and the playwrights are 
121 



A WRONG STATEMENT o 


spoiling us, that is to say are robbing us of our 
self-reliance and our vitality. 

In Germany and in England, even in Holland, 
where they are at times particularly intelligent, 
they follow up their statement that I wish unreason¬ 
ably to drive out the plays and the playwrights 
from the Theatre without reason, by adding that 1 
wish to introduce the painter in the place of the 
author. 

What leads them to surmise this is, that I happen 
to have made very many stage designs on paper. 
In my time I have produced many pieces on the 
stage, and in most cases when doing so I have not 
previously produced designs on paper; and if I 
possessed a theatre of my own I should not convey 
on to the paper the designs which are in my mind, 
but I should place them directly on to the stage. 

But as I have not yet this theatre of my own, and 
as my mind leaves me no rest until these designs 
and ideas are put into one form or another, I 
have been forced to make studies of these ideas 
with the limited means at my disposal. And so 
I am judged by what is seen on paper and am 
acclaimed as Maler (painter); and instantly the 
thoughtless scream out: “ Ha, ha ! we have un¬ 
earthed this terrible conspiracy; this man is only 
arguing from a little standpoint. He only wants 
to oust our plays from the stage so that his pictures 
may come there instead.” 

But, gentlemen, I assure you, you have made 
122 



A MISTAKE 






another mistake. A mistake very easy to make 
and very difficult to avoid making, because you 
naturally say to yourselves : “ If he is not a painter, 
what is he ? He can’t be a stage-manager, because 
a stage-manager first demands a playwright, and 
this man does not demand a playwright.” I see 
your difficulty perfectly well. How can you under¬ 
stand that which has not been ? how can you believe 
in that which you have not seen ? Oh, for a few 
such men, who, seeing with the mind’s eye things 
which are visionary, believe in the heart of their 
minds that which they see! Let me repeat again 
that it is not only the writer whose work is useless 
in the theatre. It is the musician’s work which is 
useless there, and it is the painter’s work which 
is useless there. All three are utterly useless. Let 
them keep to their preserves, let them keep to their 
kingdoms, and let those of the theatre return to 
theirs. Only when these last are once more re¬ 
united there shall spring so great an art, and one 
so universally beloved, that I prophesy that a new 
religion will be found contained in it. That 
religion will preach no more, but it will reveal. It 
will not show us the definite images which the 
sculptor and the painter show. It will unveil 
thought to our eyes, silently—by movements—in 
visions. 

So you see now—I hope you see—that the 
Theatre has nothing to do with the painter, or 
painting, just as it has nothing to do with the 
123 



A HARMLESS PROPOSITION 


playwright and literature. You also see that my 
proposition is a very harmless one—some of you 
will say a very foolish one—this of restoring our 
ancient and honourable art. Very harmless, because 
you see that I am entirely free from antagonism 
towards the poets or the dramatists; and what 
feeling I have about the matter is so slight that it 
will influence the modern theatre but little. The 
modern theatre will retain its place and will go on 
being the modern theatre until the painter shows 
a little more fight, and then it will become the 
more modern theatre, and then some other artist— 
perhaps the architect—will have his turn; and then 
the two will fight it out, it will be a beautiful little 
tussle, and we, the men of the Theatre, that is 
to say the third dog, will run off with the bone. 
Eccola ! 

1908 . 


124 



PEER GYNT 

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THE THEATRE IN RUSSIA, 
GERMANY AND ENGLAND 


TWO LETTERS TO JOHN SEMAR 


I 


M Y dear Semar, 

On leaving Florence you asked me to 
send you some news of the theatres that I should 
see in Germany, England and Russia, and I had 
no sooner arrived at Munich than I wanted to 
send you news enough to fill three numbers of The 
Mask. 

On getting as far as Amsterdam I wanted to 
send you more news, and now that I am in England 
I see that it is absolutely necessary to delay no 
longer. 

To write to you about the Art of the Theatre I 
don’t intend, because the Art of the Theatre posi¬ 
tively does not exist, but one can write about the 
activity and inactivity of the Theatre, and if you 
ask me where the Theatre is most active, I reply 
it is in Germany. The German activity is not only 
impulsive but systematic, and this combination is 
going to bring the German Theatre in twenty years 
to the foremost position in Europe. I judge by 
what I see and not by what I hear, and this is what 
I have seen in Munich. 

I have seen princes lending their name and giving 
125 




THE THEATRE IN GERMANY & ENGLAND 


their money to the furtherance of the Theatre. I 
have seen a new building which has been erected 
in Munich by the architect, Professor Littmann. 
I have been over this theatre, and I can assure you 
that it is first class, that it is not a foolish affair 
with several balconies one over the other, with un¬ 
necessary gilt or marble columns, with unnecessary 
draperies of plush or silk, or with some vast chan¬ 
delier, or with the' ordinary orchestra boxes and the 
ordinary stage. It is quite out of the ordinary in 
every way, and yet you see princes support it, 
without calling it eccentric, and, what is more, the 
people support it. I myself tried to obtain a seat 
for the evening’s performance, and although it was 
at the end of the season, it was impossible to do so. 
Through the courtesy of Professor Littmann I was 
able to go on to the stage during the day, and into 
the auditorium, and I was shown the scenic devices 
and those for lighting. 

They were unlike others that I have seen. The 
question is not whether they were good or whether 
they were bad, the only thing that I shall draw 
your attention to at all is, that although they are 
entirely new, entirely original, they are receiving 
support, and not a sort of timid support, but the 
whole-hearted support of the city of Munich; then I 
arrive in England to find not one city giving any 
support from its heart to any original idea which 
may be in the heads of the younger generation in 
England, and this is nothing short of disgraceful. 

126 



THE THEATRE IN GERMANY & ENGLAND 


In England we have, I suppose, as much intelligence, 
as much taste, and perhaps as much genius, as in 
other lands. Beauty, my dear Semar, the beauty 
of England is extraordinary, the beauty of its 
people is amazing, but its energy seems a little bit 
at rest. 

I fully believe that all the artists are playing golf 
or shooting pheasants. I can imagine that they 
say to themselves they would rather be in the open 
air than sitting in a room to be insulted by a lot of 
rich titled dormice, to whom it has never occurred 
that there is something better than sleeping. 
Before I left England, I thought it was the fault of 
the actor-managers and the men in the theatre. 
The former seemed to me a most wicked people; 
but the actor-managers are not entirely to blame. 
It is the country that is to blame, it is the rich 
gentlemen of England who are to blame. What 
right have I for saying this ? Why, my stay in 
Germany of about four years, my visit to Russia 
and to Holland, and then on the top of it this last 
stay of two days in Munich. One sees and realizes 
these things in a flash; one waits, looks, inquires, 
wonders, and suddenly it becomes quite clear; and 
unless the gentlemen of England wake up, putting 
aside the coat of the snob and assuming the coat of 
the gentleman, the Theatre will not revive—until the 
day when the English gentleman finds he has lost 
all his money, that it has been taken by a foreign 
nation, and in despair he looks round for some one 
127 



THE THEATRE IN GERMANY & ENGLAND 


who can help him. Then he will look to the artists 
and the workers. I am not a Socialist. I love the 
idea of the swagger lords of England; but it no 
longer contains swaggering lords with their swag¬ 
gering ways; they are all somnambulists, white¬ 
faced, white-bearded; they creep up and down the 
towns from Dover to Carlisle, muttering to them¬ 
selves, “ Thank God ! father left me well off. Now 
I shall have no more worry ! ” But they certainly 
will have a great deal more worry, and it seems to 
me in a way they don’t expect. No ! I am not 
a Socialist, my dear Semar, not yet! 

Now a word or two more about the Munich 
theatre—the MUnchner Kimtsler Theater , which 
means the Artist’s Theatre of Munich. To a 
certain section of English artists, perhaps the best 
section, there is something alarming, something 
incidentally of what they would call an Art-y 
theatre, Art with a capital “ A.” But this Art is 
not allowed to have a capital “ A ” as well as any 
other work ! I have seen War with a capital 
“ W,” and what is against Art with a capital “ A ” ? 

I cannot tell you all the plays that they produce, 
but it is sufficient to speak here of Faust , which they 
commence at six o’clock in the evening in order 
that they should not be obliged to cut it; of 
Das Wundertheater, the play which possibly many 
people have not heard of, by that little-known 
writer, Cervantes; or Die Deutschen Kleinstadter 
or Twelfth Night ; besides these, of the May 
128 



THE THEATRE IN GERMANY & ENGLAND 


Queen , also of the Little Dance Legend , Herr Peter 
Squenz , and other interesting works. 

These productions are the work of the painters 
and the actors, but they are not unknown actors, nor 
actors who call themselves independent. They are 
the actors of the Royal Theatre, that is to say they 
are what is called conventional actors. I wonder, 
if there were found a man generous enough to build 
an Art Theatre in England, whether the chief 
theatres would lend their actors ? The Orchestra 
in the little Munich theatre is not merely a scratch 
one, it is the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra!! 

Now from such a beginning, from such a combina¬ 
tion of actors, musicians and designers (not to 
speak of the stage-managers, who are the best that 
can be obtained), much is to be expected. From 
such a combination in England we could expect 
as much. Although I was unable to see the per¬ 
formance, I know that it must have been very 
excellent, and very excellent because very thorough. 
I did see the stage, and of that I will tell you 
something. 

It was very small, but very complete. Nothing 
seemed to have been left to chance. Ropes, 
scenery, lights, seemed to be all out of the way; 
everything seemed to have been, as it were, put 
into the cupboard. The scenes which were in use 
were all hung up, but I cannot describe how they 
were hung up, how well done, how cleverly done. 
The scene was set for the evening, chairs and tables 
K 129 



THE THEATRE IN GERMANY & ENGLAND 


covered. The scenery, although it had been in 
use for several months, showed no sign of wear 
whatever; even the corners where two pieces meet 
together seemed to be as fresh as the day they were 
made. Everything seemed so good, so well nursed. 
I was enchanted by what I saw; it said this one 
thing to me so clearly : it said, “ We Germans are 
not prepared to say whether the performance will 
be a work of art or not; we are not prepared to say 
whether a genius is coming into the theatre or a 
fool; but we are determined that, whether it be a fool 
or a genius, he shall find everything in perfect order, 
and he shall have nothing to complain of as to our 
arrangements. Unless we give him a good machine 
(not necessarily an elaborate machine) the work will 
not have a fair chance.” 

It would be something to find out the way the 
Germans set about such a task; it would be very 
interesting to note whether it is a committee which 
produces all this system, or whether it is the 
national training, or whether it is dependent upon 
a man’s personality. I think it must be the 
national training. “ Right-about Turn! Quick 
March ! Eyes Right! ” Something of this. The 
appliances on the stage of the theatre seemed to 
me to have come from all parts of the earth, for 
this is the German characteristic, to refuse nothing 
if he thinks it will be of use. 

I have not told you of the building itself. It 
is beautiful in appearance; it would take too long 
130 



THE THEATRE IN GERMANY & ENGLAND 


to describe its charms, but here again its beauty is 
of secondary importance, what is paramount being 
its practicalness and its usefulness. You enter the 
building, and straight in front of you is the box 
office. On each side are steps leading to your seats, 
the words indicating the direction you are to take 
being made part of the decoration, not, as in 
England, a sort of label on the wall. There is 
much more to be said, and I will write you again 
about this and other theatres, and let us hope that 
soon some united action will be taken in England 
in this matter of a new theatre. First, that the 
English gentleman shall understand the part that 
he is to play; then that the organizer too shall learn 
what part he is to play; then, finally, that the 
artist may be called upon to fill the beautiful and 
systematic theatre with beautiful things. 

P.S.—By the by, in going through the stage-door 
of the theatre I saw there the following words, 
“ Sprechen Streng Verboten,” which means 
“ Speaking Strictly Forbidden.” The first moment 
I thought I was in heaven. I thought “ At last 
they have discovered the Art of the Theatre.” 
But no, they have not got so far with the Art. 
Queer ! but the clue is in that very Sprechen streng 
verboten. 

England, 1908. 

Note.—Since writing this the Germans , under their foremost 
leader, Professor Reinhardt, have invaded England and shown 
that what 1 wrote in 1908 was correct. They have given England 
a lesson in theatrical administration and modern theatrical art . 

K 2 131 



THE THEATRE IN RUSSIA & ENGLAND 


II 

My dear Semar, 

I have been intending to write you about the 
Theatre in England. Perhaps one of these days 
I may be inspired to fill in a picture post card with 
the few necessary expressive words, but to-day 
words fail me to express all I feel about the Theatre 
in England. 

You see I’ve seen it and the jolly fellows who 
perpetrate it; they are great fun. I could write 
you books about them and their genial amiabilities. 

I am now in Russia and lodged in the vivid city 
of Moscow : feted by the actors of the first theatre 
here, who are some of the most splendid fellows in 
the world; and, besides being admirable hosts, they 
are admirable actors. 

Soulerzitsky, Moskwin, Artem, Leonidof, Kat- 
schalof, Wischnewski, Luschski, Ballif, Adaschef; 
Frau Lilina, quite delicious; Frau Knipper, mag¬ 
nificent when she wishes; some of the actors in The 
Blue Bird very clever, especially Fraulein Kooneu. 
Add to these the hundred other actors and actresses 
who show promise of forming a powerful and united 
dramatic force; and let me tell you they are one and 
all intelligent, enthusiastic about their work, work¬ 
ing continuously new plays each day, new ideas 
each minute, and with this to go on you can form 
for yourself whatever impression you wish. 

If such a company could be conjured into exist- 
132 



THE THEATRE IN RUSSIA & ENGLAND 


ence in England Shakespeare would again become 
a force. As it is he is merely a stock-in-trade. The 
Art Theatre here (about which I write) is alive, is 
possessed of character and intelligence. 

Its director, Constantin Stanislawsky, has 
achieved the impossible : he has successfully estab¬ 
lished a non-commercial theatre. He believes in 
realism as a medium through which the actor can 
reveal the psychology of the dramatist. I don’t 
believe in it. This is not the place to discuss the 
wisdom or folly of this theory : in the dust jewels 
are sometimes found; by looking downward the 
sky can sometimes be seen. 

It is quite enough to say that what these Russians 
do upon their stage they do to perfection. They 
waste time, money, labour, brains and patience 
like emperors : like true emperors they do not think 
they have done all when they have merely spent 
a lavish sum upon decorations and machinery, 
although they do not omit to attend to this. 

They give hundreds of rehearsals to a play, they 
change and rechange a scene until it balances to 
their thought: they rehearse and rehearse and 
rehearse, inventing detail upon detail with con¬ 
summate care and patience and always with vivid 
intelligence—Russian intelligence. 

Seriousness, character, these two qualities will 
guide the Moscow Art Theatre to unending success 
in Europe or elsewhere. Their theatre was born 
with a silver spoon in its mouth : it is now only ten 
133 



THE THEATRE IN RUSSIA & ENGLAND 


years old : it has a long life before it: when it comes 
of age it will be a firmly established institution. 
It must take care not to court poetry, and must 
certainly not wed her, but when it reaches man’s 
estate it will awaken to a new consciousness, spread 
wings and soar by the two wings of imagination into 
that vaster and more open path which has no name 
and leads nowhere beyond itself. 

And I am perhaps more miserable than ever 
before in my life, because I realize the hopeless 
inactivity of England and its stage, the hopeless 
vanity and folly of its stage, the utter stupidity 
of every one connected with the Arts in England, 
the death-like complaisancy with which London 
thinks it is active and intelligent about these 
matters, the idiocy of that section of the Press 
which calls every courageous attempt to revive life 
and art “ eccentric,” that lack of comradeship in 
London, that lust for twopence at all costs. The 
English actors have no chance; their system of 
management is bad : they get no chance of study or 
experience, and dare not rebel or they would lose 
their bread-and-butter; so they laugh their life 
away as best they can, that is to say, grimly. 

The Russian actors of the Klintslerisches Theater 
at Moscow give me the impression that they experi¬ 
ence a keener intellectual enjoyment during their 
performances than any other actors in Europe. 
All their performances are admirable, and whether 
they touch a play of modern life and modern feeling 
134 



THE THEATRE IN RUSSIA & ENGLAND 


or a fairy tale, the touch is always sure, always 
delicate, masterly. Nothing is slipshod. Every¬ 
thing is treated seriously—seriousness, as I have 
said, is the marked quality of this Russian theatre. 
Earnestness is never apparent—coming from Eng¬ 
land this seriousness is possibly more apparent to 
me than if I were a resident here. In England the 
spirit of mockery is the same force as it was thirty 
years ago when E. W. Godwin drew attention to the 
fact. The managers and actors are afraid to be 
serious, they might be laughed at, they most 
naturally fear to be merely earnest. In England 
we find a clever actor laughing at his part and 
himself, and winking all the time at the audience, 
horrified least he may be taken seriously. To 
commit himself would be more than a crime—as 
Alexandre says, it would be a blunder. Here in 
Moscow they risk the blunder and achieve the dis¬ 
tinction of being the best set of actors upon the 
European stage. Less of a spontaneous whirlwind 
than Grasso, their first actor Stanislawsky is more 
intellectual. 

This is not to be misunderstood. You are not 
to imagine that this actor is cold or stilted. A 
simpler technique, a more human result, would be 
difficult to find. A master of psychology, his acting 
is most realistic, yet he avoids nearly all the brutal¬ 
ities; his performances are all remarkable for their 
grace. I can find no better word. 

I have been most pleased by the performance 
135 



THE THEATRE IN RUSSIA & ENGLAND 


of Onkel Wanja , although this company is able 
to handle any play admirably. 

In The Enemy of the People Stanislawsky shows 
us how to act Dr. Stockmann without being 
“ theatrical ” and without being comic or dull. 
The audience smile all the time that they are 
not being moved to tears, but never does a coarse 
roar go up such as we are used to in the English 
theatre. 

Moscow, 1908. 


186 



HAMLET 

Act I. Scene IV. 

It was this design which I carried over to Germany in 1904, when 
I first went to Weimar at the invitation of Count Kessler, one of the 
men who has done most for the German Theatre. 

If we had even one such enthusiast of like culture and practical 
energy in England, the Theatre would be in a more living condition 
than it is to-day. 

This design seems to have given pleasure to my few German 
friends—and I remember that their pleasure gave me more. 

I am not particularly fond of German art, except for its early 
music, but I am never forgetful of German enthusiasm and of the 
titanic energy displayed from one end of the land to the other. 

And nowhere was there more promise in all Germany than in 
Weimar in 1904, when Count Kessler lent himself to the task of 
guiding the taste of the people who were eager to follow him. 

In fact the success of Prof. Reinhardt in Berlin is in a large 
measure due to the influence and enthusiasm of Count Kessler. 


THE THEATRE IN BUSilA ENGLAND 


to handle any play adm .. 

The Enemy of the Stajiis^aw v shoves 

; how to act Dr. M muni without q<G% 
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THE ART OF THE THEATRE 
THE FIRST DIALOGUE 1 a 


AN EXPERT AND A PLAYGOER ARE CONVERSING 


Stage-director 


OU have now been over the theatre with me, 



-L and have seen its general construction, 
together with the stage, the machinery for manipu¬ 
lating the scenes, the apparatus for lighting, and 
the hundred other things, and have also heard what 
I have had to say of the theatre as a machine; let 
us rest here in the auditorium, and talk a while 
of the theatre and of its art. Tell me, do you 
know what is the Art of the Theatre ? 


Playgoer 


To me it seems that Acting is the Art of the 


Theatre. 

Stage-director 

Is a part, then, equal to a whole ? 

Playgoer 


No, of course not. Do you, then, mean that the 
play is the Art of the Theatre ? 

1 This First Dialogue was published in 1905. The little book 
soon went out of print, and for the last three years copies have 
been unprocurable. It is reprinted here under its original title, 
although 1 should like to call it “ The Art of the Theatre of 
To-morrow, li for it fairly represents that theatre. The day after 
to-morrow can safely be called the Future—a newer, better theatre 
will then be needed than is here indicated; for then the Uber- 
Marionette and the unspoken Drama will be with you. Of that 1 
have written elsewhere in this volume. 


137 




THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

A play is a work of literature, is it not ? Tell 
me, then, how one art can possibly be another ? 

Playgoer 

Well, then, if you tell me that the Art of the 
Theatre is neither the acting nor the play, then I 
must come to the conclusion that it is the scenery 
and the dancing. Yet I cannot think you will tell 
me this is so. 

Stage-director 

No; the Art of the Theatre is neither acting 
nor the play, it is not scene nor dance, but it con¬ 
sists of all the elements of which these things are 
composed: action, which is the very spirit of 
acting; words, which are the body of the play; 
line and colour, which are the very heart of the 
scene; rhythm, which is the very essence of dance. 

Playgoer 

Action, words, line, colour, rhythm ! And which 
of these is all-important to the art ? 

Stage-director 

One is no more important than the other, no 
more than one colour is more important to a 
painter than another, or one note more important 
than another to a musician. In one respect, 
perhaps, action is the most valuable part. Action 
138 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


bears the same relation to the Art of the Theatre 
as drawing does to painting, and melody does to 
music. The Art of the Theatre has sprung from 
action—movement—dance. 

Playgoer 

I always was led to suppose that it had sprung 
from speech, and that the poet was the father of 
the theatre. 

Stage-director 

This is the common belief, but consider it for a 
moment. The poet’s imagination finds voice in 
words, beautifully chosen; he then either recites 
or sings these words to us, and all is done. That 
poetry, sung or recited, is for our ears, and, through 
them, for our imagination. It will not help the 
matter if the poet shall add gesture to his recita¬ 
tion or to his song; in fact, it will spoil all. 

Playgoer 

Yes, that is clear to me. I quite understand 
that the addition of gesture to a perfect lyric poem 
can but produce an inharmonious result. But 
would you apply the same argument to dramatic 
poetry ? 

Stage-director 

Certainly I would. Remember I speak of a 
dramatic poem, not of a drama. The two things 
are separate things. A dramatic poem is to be 
139 



o THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


read. A drama is not to be read, but to be seen 
upon the stage. Therefore gesture is a necessity 
to a drama, and it is useless to a dramatic poem. 
It is absurd to talk of these two things, gesture and 
poetry, as having anything to do with one another. 
And now, just as you must not confound the dra¬ 
matic poem with the drama, neither must you 
confound the dramatic poet with the dramatist. 
The first writes for the reader, or listener, the 
second writes for the audience of a theatre. Do 
you know who was the father of the dramatist ? 

Playgoer 

No, I do not know, but I suppose he was the 
dramatic poet. 

Stage-director 

You are wrong. The father of the dramatist 
was the dancer. And now tell me from what 
material the dramatist made his first piece ? 

Playgoer 

I suppose he used words in the same way as the 
lyric poet. 

Stage-director 

Again you are wrong, and that is what every 
one else supposes who has not learnt the nature 
of dramatic art. No; the dramatist made his 
first piece by using action, words, line, colour, and 
rhythm, and making his appeal to our eyes and 
ears by a dexterous use of these five factors. 

140 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

And what is the difference between this work 
of the first dramatists and that of the modern 
dramatists ? 


Stage-director 

The first dramatists were children of the theatre. 
The modern dramatists are not. The first dra¬ 
matist understood what the modern dramatist 
does not yet understand. He knew that when 
he and his fellows appeared in front of them the 
audience would be more eager to see what he 
would do than to hear what he might say . He 
knew that the eye is more swiftly and powerfully 
appealed to than any other sense; that it is without 
question the keenest sense of the body of man. 
The first thing which he encountered on appearing 
before them was many pairs of eyes, eager and 
hungry. Even the men and women sitting so 
far from him that they would not always be able 
to hear what he might say, seemed quite close to 
him by reason of the piercing keenness of their 
questioning eyes. To these, and all, he spoke 
either in poetry or prose, but always in action : 
in poetic action which is dance, or in prose action 
which is gesture. 


Playgoer 

I am very interested, go on, go on. 

141 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Stage-director 

No—rather let us pull up and examine our 
ground. I have said that the first dramatist was 
the dancer’s son, that is to say, the child of the 
theatre, not the child of the poet. And I have just 
said that the modern dramatic poet is the child 
of the poet, and knows only how to reach the ears 
of his listeners, nothing else. And yet in spite 
of this does not the modern audience still go to 
the theatre as of old to see things, and not to hear 
things ? Indeed, modern audiences insist on look¬ 
ing and having their eyes satisfied in spite of the 
call from the poet that they shall use their ears 
only. And now do not misunderstand me. I 
am not saying or hinting that the poet is a bad 
writer of plays, or that he has a bad influence 
upon the theatre. I only wish you to understand 
that the poet is not of the theatre, has never 
come from the theatre, and cannot be of the 
theatre, and that only the dramatist among 
writers has any birth-claim to the theatre—and 
that a very slight one. But to continue. My 
point is this, that the people still flock to see , not 
to hear, plays. But what does that prove ? 
Only that the audiences have not altered. They 
are there with their thousand pairs of eyes, just 
the same as of old. And this is all the more extra¬ 
ordinary because the playwrights and the plays 
have altered. No longer is a play a balance of 
142 



o THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


actions, words, dance, and scene, but it is either 
all words or all scene. Shakespeare’s plays, for 
instance, are a very different thing to the less 
modern miracle and mystery plays, which were 
made entirely for the theatre. Hamlet has not the 
nature of a stage representation. Hamlet and the 
other plays of Shakespeare have so vast and so 
complete a form when read, that they can but 
lose heavily when presented to us after having 
undergone stage treatment. That they were acted 
in Shakespeare’s day proves nothing. I will tell 
you, on the other hand, what at that period was 
made for the theatre—the Masques—the Pageants 
—these were light and beautiful examples of the 
Art of the Theatre. Had the plays been made 
to be seen, we should find them incomplete when 
we read them. Now, no one will say that they 
find Hamlet dull or incomplete when they read 
it, yet there are many who will feel sorry after 
witnessing a performance of the play, saying, 
“ No, that is not Shakespeare’s Hamlet .” When 
no further addition can be made so as to better 
a work of art, it can be spoken of as “ finished ”— 
it is complete. Hamlet was finished—was com¬ 
plete—when Shakespeare wrote the last word of 
his blank verse, and for us to add to it by gesture, 
scene, costume, or dance, is to hint that it is 
incomplete and needs these additions. 


143 



^ THE FIRST DIALOGUE ^ 


Playgoer 

Then do you mean to say Hamlet should never 
be performed ? 

Stage-director 

To what purpose would it be if I replied “ Yes ” ? 
Hamlet will go on being performed for some time 
yet, and the duty of the interpreters is to put their 
best work at its service. But, as I have said, the 
theatre must not forever rely upon having a play 
to perform, but must in time perform pieces of 
its own art. 

Playgoer 

And a piece for the theatre, is that, then, incom¬ 
plete when printed in a book or recited ? 

Stage-director 

Yes—and incomplete anywhere except on the 
boards of a theatre. It must needs be unsatis¬ 
fying, artless, when read or merely heard, because 
it is incomplete without its action, its colour, its 
line and its rhythm in movement and in scene 

Playgoer 

This interests me, but it dazzles me at the same 
time. 

Stage-director 

Is that, perhaps, because it is a little new ? Tell 
me what it is especially that dazzles you. 

144 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

Well, first of all, the fact that I have never 
stopped to consider of what the art of the theatre 
consisted—to many of us it is just an amusement. 

Stage-director 

And to you ? 

Playgoer 

Oh, to me it has always been a fascination, 
half amusement and half intellectual exercise. 
The show has always amused me; the playing of 
the players has often instructed me. 

Stage-director 

In fact, a sort of incomplete satisfaction. That 
is the natural result of seeing and hearing something 
imperfect. 

Playgoer 

But I have seen some few plays which seemed 
to satisfy me. 

Stage-director 

If you have been entirely satisfied by something 
obviously mediocre, may it not be that you were 
searching for something less than mediocre, and 
you found that which was just a little better than 
you expected? Some people go to the theatre, 
nowadays, expecting to be bored. This is natural, 
L 145 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


for they have been taught to look for tiresome 
things. When you tell me you have been satisfied 
at a modern theatre, you prove that it is not only 
the art which has degenerated, but that a propor¬ 
tion of the audience has degenerated also. But 
do not let this depress you. I once knew a man 
whose life was so occupied, he never heard music 
other than that of the street organ. It was to 
him the ideal of what music should be. Still, as 
you know, there is better music in the world— 
in fact, barrel-organ music is very bad music; 
and if you were for once to see an actual piece of 
theatrical art, you would never again tolerate 
what is to-day being thrust upon you in place of 
theatrical art. The reason why you are not given 
a work of art on the stage is not because the public 
does not want it, not because there are not excel¬ 
lent craftsmen in the theatre who could prepare 
it for you, but because the theatre lacks the 
artist—the artist of the theatre, mind you, not 
the painter, poet, musician. The many excellent 
craftsmen whom I have mentioned are, all of them, 
more or less helpless to change the situation. They 
are forced to supply what the managers of the 
theatre demand, but they do so most willingly. 
The advent of the artist in the theatre world will 
change all this. He will slowly but surely gather 
around him these better craftsmen of whom I 
speak, and together they will give new life to the 
art of the theatre. 


146 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

But for the others ? 

Stage-director 

The others ? The modern theatre is full of these 
others, these untrained and untalented craftsmen. 
But I will say one thing for them. I believe they 
are unconscious of their inability. It is not 
ignorance on their part, it is innocence. Yet 
if these same men once realized that they were 
craftsmen, and would train as such—I do not 
speak only of the stage-carpenters, electricians, 
wigmakers, costumiers, scene-painters, and actors 
(indeed, these are in many ways the best and most 
willing craftsmen)—I speak chiefly of the stage- 
director. If the stage-director was to technically 
train himself for his task of interpreting the plays 
of the dramatist—in time, and by a gradual develop¬ 
ment he would again recover the ground lost to 
the theatre, and finally would restore the Art of 
the Theatre to its home by means of his own 
creative genius. 

Playgoer 

Then you place the stage-director before the 
actors ? 

Stage-director 

Yes; the relation of the stage-director to the 
actor is precisely the same as that of the conductor 
to his orchestra, or of the publisher to his printer. 

L 2 147 



o THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

And you consider that the stage-director is a 
craftsman and not an artist ? 

Stage-director 

When he interprets the plays of the dramatist 
by means of his actors, his scene-painters, and his 
other craftsmen, then he is a craftsman—a master 
craftsman; when he will have mastered the uses 
of actions, words, line, colour, and rhythm, then 
he may become an artist. Then we shall no longer 
need the assistance of the playwright—for our art 
will then be self-reliant. 

Playgoer 

Is your belief in a Renaissance of the art based 
on your belief in the Renaissance of the stage 
director ? 

Stage-director 

Yes, certainly, most certainly. Did you for 
an instant think that I have a contempt for the 
stage-director ? Rather have I a contempt for 
any man who fails in the whole duty of the stage- 
director. 

Playgoer 

What are his duties ? 

Stage-director 

What is his craft ? I will tell you. His work 
as interpreter of the play of the dramatist is some- 

148 



VENICE PRESERVED 


This is the scene where the conspirators meet—a most exciting 
scene in a fine drama. The play is so well known that it is 
unnecessary to say anything about it here. 

One thing the clever idiot will be sure to truculently jump at and 
call a faidt is that the depth of the stage would never be seen by those 
sitting in the gallery and many sitting in the upper circle. But are 
you to make empty and obviously “theatrical " scenes just because 
managers don't know how to order their theatres to be built ? The 
people never asked to be put up in a gallery so that the artists couldn't 
give them their best work. The people never clamoured for an upper 
circle. 

It was the stupid managers of the past three centuries who, 
taking the Greek and Roman theatres as their guide, thought that 
they could apply their principles to modern requirements. 

Then they began “ suggesting " improvements — wiseacres. They 
ignorantly pushed the actors out of their right place and filled up that 
place with what is called stalls—to make money. 

At the same time they forgot to cut away the three circles—to 
save money. 

And now, instead of facing the truth of the whole matter and 
rebuilding theatres with ordinary common sense, they prefer to 
potter on year after year in sentimental love with their fools' 
paradise. 

Germany has already taken up this question and is building 
afresh. 

Oh, for a huge trumpet which would be heard all over London every 
morning, through which could be spoken these words : “ Germany is 
doing the things you call unpractical." 

This is the truth. Germany is doing everything which the duffers 
who call themselves Englishmen say is not possible to do. 







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^ THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


thing like this : he takes the copy of the play from 
the hands of the dramatist and promises faithfully 
to interpret it as indicated in the text (remember 
I am speaking only of the very best of stage- 
directors). He then reads the play, and during 
the first reading the entire colour, tone, move¬ 
ment, and rhythm that the work must assume 
comes clearly before him. As for the stage direc¬ 
tions, descriptions of the scenes, etc., with which 
the author may interlard his copy, these are not 
to be considered by him, for if he is master of his 
craft he can learn nothing from them. 

Playgoer 

I do not quite understand you. Do you mean 
that when a playwright has taken the trouble to 
describe the scene in which his men and women are 
to move and talk, that the stage-director is to 
take no notice of such directions—in fact, to 
disregard them ? 


Stage-director 

It makes no difference whether he regards or 
disregards them. What he must see to is that 
he makes his action and scene match the verse or 
the prose, the beauty of it, the sense of it. What¬ 
ever picture the dramatist may wish us to know 
of, he will describe his scene during the progress 
of the conversation between the characters. Take, 
for instance, the first scene in Hamlet. It begins :— 
149 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Ber. Who’s there ? 

Fran. Nay, answer me ; stand and unfold yourself. 

Ber. Long live the king ! 

Fran. Bernardo? 

Ber. He. 

Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour. 

Ber. ’Tis now struck twelve ; get thee to bed, Francisco. 

Fran. For this relief much thanks, ’tis bitter cold. 

And I am sick at heart. 

Ber. Have you had quiet guard ? 

Fran. Not a mouse stirring. 

Ber. Well, good night. 

If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, 

The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. 

That is enough to guide the stage-director. He 
gathers from it that it is twelve o’clock at night, 
that it is in the open air, that the guard of some 
castle is being changed, that it is very cold, very 
quiet, and very dark. Any additional “ stage 
directions ” by the dramatist are trivialities 

Playgoer 

Then you do not think that an author should 
write any stage directions whatever, and you seem 
to consider it an offence on his part if he does so ? 

Stage-director 

Well, is it not an offence to the men of the 
theatre ? 

Playgoer 

In what way ? 


Stage-director 

First tell me the greatest offence an actor can 
give to a dramatist. 


150 



^ THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

To play his part badly ? 

Stage-director 

No, that may merely prove the actor to be a 
bad craftsman. 

Playgoer 

Tell me, then. 

Stage-director 

The greatest offence an actor can give to a dra¬ 
matist is to cut out words or lines in his play, or 
to insert what is known as a “ gag.” It is an 
offence to poach on what is the sole property of 
the playwright. It is not usual to “ gag ” in 
Shakespeare, and when it is done it does not go 
uncensured. 

Playgoer 

But what has this to do with the stage directions 
of the playwright, and in what way does the play¬ 
wright offend the theatre when he dictates these 
stage directions ? 

Stage-director 

He offends in that he poaches on their preserves. 
If to gag or cut the poet’s lines is an offence, so is 
it an offence to tamper with the art of the stage- 
director. 

Playgoer 

Then is all the stage direction of the world’s 
plays worthless ? 


151 



o THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Not to the reader, but to the stage-director, 
and to the actor—yes. 

Playgoer 

But Shakespeare- 

Stage-director 

Shakespeare seldom directs the stage-manager. 
Go through Hamlet , Romeo and Juliet , King Lear , 
Othello , any of the masterpieces, and except in 
some of the historical plays which contain descrip¬ 
tions of possessions, etc., what do you find ? How 
are the scenes described in Hamlet ? 

Playgoer 

My copy shows a clear description. It has 
“ Act I., scene i. Elsinore. A platform before 
the Castle.” 

Stage-director 

You are looking at a late edition with additions 
by a certain Mr. Malone, but Shakespeare wrote 
nothing of the kind. His words are “ Actus primus. 
Scsena prima.” . . . And now let us look at 
Romeo and Juliet. What does your book say ? 

Playgoer 

It says : “Act I., scene i. Verona. A public 
place.” 


152 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Stage-director 

And the second scene ? 

Playgoer 

It says : “ Scene ii. A street.” 

Stage-director 

And the third scene ? 

Playgoer 

It says: “ Scene iii. A room in Capulet’s 
house.” 

Stage-director 

And now, would you like to hear what scene 
directions Shakespeare actually wrote for this 
play ? 

Playgoer 

Yes. 

Stage-director 

He wrote: “ Actus primus. Scsena prima.” 

And not another word as to act or scene throughout 
the whole play. And now for King Lear. 

Playgoer 

No, it is enough. I see now. Evidently Shake¬ 
speare relied upon the intelligence of the stage-men 
to complete their scene from his indication. . . . 
But is this the same in regard to the actions ? 
Does not Shakespeare place some descriptions 
through Hamlet , such as “ Hamlet leaps into 
153 




o THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Ophelia’s grave,” “ Laertes grapples with him,” 
and later, “ The attendants part them, and they 
come out of the grave ” ? 

Stage-director 

No, not one word. All the stage directions, 
from the first to the last, are the tame inventions 
of sundry editors, Mr. Malone, Mr. Capell, Theobald 
and others, and they have committed an indiscre¬ 
tion in tampering with the play, for which we, the 
men of the theatre, have to suffer. 

Playgoer 

How is that ? 

Stage-director 

Why, supposing any of us reading Shakespeare 
shall see in our mind’s eye some other combination 
of movements contrary to the “ instructions ” of 
these gentlemen, and suppose we represent our 
ideas on the stage, we are instantly taken to task 
by some knowing one, who accuses us of altering 
the directions of Shakespeare—nay more, of alter¬ 
ing his very intentions. 

Playgoer 

But do not the “ knowing ones,” as you call 
them, know that Shakespeare wrote no stage 
directions ? 

Stage-director 

One can only guess that to be the case, to judge 
from their indiscreet criticisms. Anyhow, what 
154 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


I wanted to show you was that our greatest modern 
poet realized that to add stage directions was 
first of all unnecessary, and secondly, tasteless. 
We can therefore be sure that Shakespeare at any 
rate realized what was the work of the theatre 
craftsman—the stage-manager, and that it was 
part of the stage-manager’s task to invent the 
scenes in which the play was to be set. 

Playgoer 

Yes, and you were telling me what each part 
consisted of. 

Stage-director 

Quite so. And now that we have disposed of 
the error that the author’s directions are of any 
use, we can continue to speak of the way the 
stage-manager sets to work to interpret faithfully 
the play of the dramatist. I have said that he 
swears to follow the text faithfully, and that his 
first work is to read the play through and get the 
great impression; and in reading, as I have said, 
begins to see the whole colour, rhythm, action of 
the thing. He then puts the play aside for some 
time, and in his mind’s eye mixes his palette (to 
use a painter’s expression) with the colours which 
the impression of the play has called up. There¬ 
fore, on sitting down a second time to read through 
the play, he is surrounded by an atmosphere which 
he proposes to test. At the end of the second 
reading he will find that his more definite impres- 
155 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


sions have received clear and unmistakable corro¬ 
boration, and that some of his impressions which 
were less positive have disappeared. He will then 
make a note of these. It is possible that he will 
even now commence to suggest, in line and colour, 
some of the scenes and ideas which are filling his 
head, but this is more likely to be delayed until 
he has re-read the play at least a dozen times. 

Playgoer 

But I thought the stage-manager always left 
that part of the play—the scene designing—to 
the scene painter ? 

Stage-director 

So he does, generally. First blunder of the 
modern theatre. 

Playgoer 

How is it a blunder ? 

Stage-director 

This way : A has written a play which B promises 
to interpret faithfully. In so delicate a matter 
as the interpretation of so elusive a thing as the 
spirit of a play, which, do you think, will be the 
surest way to preserve the unity of that spirit ? 
Will it be best if B does all the work by himself ? 
or will it do to give the work into the hands of 
C, D, and E , each of whom see or think differently 
to B or A ? 


156 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

Of course the former would be best. But is it 
possible for one man to do the work of three men ? 

Stage-director 

That is the only way the work can be done, if 
unity, the one thing vital to a work of art, is to 
be obtained. 

Playgoer 

So, then, the stage-manager does not call in a 
scene painter and ask him to design a scene, but 
he designs one himself ? 

Stage-director 

Certainly. And remember he does not merely 
sit down and draw a pretty or historically accurate 
design, with enough doors and windows in pictu¬ 
resque places, but he first of all chooses certain 
colours which seem to him to be in harmony with 
the spirit of the play, rejecting other colours as 
out of tune. He then weaves into a pattern 
certain objects—an arch, a fountain, a balcony, 
a bed—using the chosen object as the centre of 
his design. Then he adds to this all the objects 
which are mentioned in the play, and which are 
necessary to be seen. To these he adds, one by 
one, each character which appears in the play, 
and gradually each movement of each character, 
and each costume. He is as likely as not to make 
several mistakes in his pattern. If so, he must, 
as it were, unpick the design, and rectify the blunder 
157 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


even if he has to go right back to the beginning 
and start the pattern all over again—or he may- 
even have to begin a new pattern. At any rate, 
slowly, harmoniously, must the whole design 
develop, so that the eye of the beholder shall be 
satisfied. While this pattern for the eye is being 
devised, the designer is being guided as much 
by the sound of the verse or prose as by the sense 
or spirit. And shortly all is prepared, and the 
actual work can be commenced. 

Playgoer 

What actual work ? It seems to me that the 
stage-manager has already been doing a good deal 
of what may be called actual work. 

Stage-director 

Well, perhaps; but the difficulties have but 
commenced. By the actual work I mean the 
work which needs skilled labour, such as the 
actual painting of the huge spaces of canvas for 
the scenes, and the actual making of the costumes. 

Playgoer 

You are not going to tell me that the stage- 
manager actually paints his own scenes and cuts 
his own costumes, and sews them together ? 

Stage-director 

No, I will not say that he does so in every case 
and for every play, but he must have done so at 
158 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


one time or another during his apprenticeship, 
or must have closely studied all the technical 
points of these complicated crafts. Then will 
he be able to guide the skilled craftsmen in their 
different departments. And when the actual 
making of the scenes and costumes has commenced, 
the parts are distributed to the different actors, 
who learn the words before a single rehearsal 
takes place. (This, as you may guess, is not the 
custom, but it is what should be seen to by a stage- 
director such as I describe.) Meantime, the scenes 
and costumes are almost ready. I will not tell you 
the amount of interesting but laborious work it 
entails to prepare the play up to this point. But 
even when once the scenes are placed upon the 
stage, and the costumes upon the actors, the 
difficulty of the work is still great. 

Playgoer 

The stage-director’s work is not finished then ? 

Stage-director 

Finished ! What do you mean ? 

Playgoer 

Well, I thought now that the scenes and costumes 
were all seen to, the actors and actresses would 
do the rest. 

Stage-director 

No, the stage-manager’s most interesting work 
is now beginning. His scene is set and his char- 
159 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


acters are clothed. He has, in short, a kind of 
dream picture in front of him. He clears the stage 
of all but the one, two, or more characters who 
are to commence the play, and he begins the scheme 
of lighting these figures and the scene. 

Playgoer 

What, is not this branch left to the discretion 
of the master electrician and his men ? 1 

Stage-director 

The doing of it is left to them, but the manner 
of doing it is the business of the stage-manager. 
Being, as I have said, a man of some intelligence 
and training, he has devised a special way of 
lighting his scene for this play, just as he has 
devised a special way of painting the scene and 
costuming the figures. If the word “ harmony ” 
held no significance for him, he would of course 
leave to it the first comer. 

Playgoer 

Then do you actually mean that he has made 
so close a study of nature that he can direct his 
electricians how to make it appear as if the sun 
were shining at such and such an altitude, or as if 
the moonlight were flooding the interior of the 
room with such and such an intensity ? 

1 “ Why waste time talking to so stupid a man as this * Play¬ 
goer 1 ? n asked a charming lady—and would not wait for an 
answer. The reply is obvious: one does not talk to wise people — 
one listens to them. 


160 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

No, I should not like to suggest that, because 
the reproduction of nature’s lights is not what 
my stage-manager ever attempts. Neither should 
he attempt such an impossibility. Not to repro¬ 
duce nature, but to suggest some of her most beauti¬ 
ful and most living ways—that is what my stage- 
manager shall attempt. The other thing pro¬ 
claims an overbearing assumption of omnipotence. 
A stage-manager may well aim to be an artist, 
but it ill becomes him to attempt celestial honours. 
This attitude he can avoid by never trying to 
imprison or copy nature, for nature will be neither 
imprisoned nor allow any man to copy her with 
any success. 

Playgoer 

Then in what way does he set to work ? What 
guides him in his task of lighting the scene and 
costumes which we are speaking about ? 

Stage-director 

What guides him ? Why, the scene and the 
costumes, and the verse and the prose, and the 
sense of the play. All these things, as I told you, 
have now been brought into harmony, the one 
with the other—all goes smoothly—what simpler, 
then, that it should so continue, and that the 
manager should be the only one to know how to 
preserve this harmony which he has commenced 
to create ? 

M 


161 



o TEE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

Will you tell me some more about the actual 
way of lighting the scene and the actors ? 

Stage-director 

Certainly. What do you want to know ? 

Playgoer 

Well, will you tell me why they put lights all 
along the floor of the stage—footlights they call 
them, I believe ? 


Stage-director 

Yes, footlights. 

Playgoer 

Well, why are they put on the ground ? 
Stage-director 

It is one of the questions which has puzzled 
all the theatre reform gentlemen, and none have 
been able to find an answer, for the simple reason 
that there is no answer. There never was an 
answer, there never will be an answer. The only 
thing to do is to remove all the footlights out of 
all the theatres as quickly as possible and say 
nothing about it. It is one of those queer things 
which nobody can explain, and at which children 
are always surprised. Little Nancy Lake, in 1812, 
went to Drury Lane Theatre, and her father tells 
162 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


us that she also was astonished at the footlights. 
Said she :— 

“ And there’s a row of lamps, my eye ! 

How they do blaze—I wonder why 
They keep them on the ground.” 

—Rejected Addresses. 

That was in 1812 ! and we are still wondering. 
Playgoer 

A friend of mine—an actor—once told me that 
if there were no footlights all the faces of the actors 
would look dirty. 


Stage-director 

That was the remark of a man who did not 
understand that in place of the footlights another 
method of lighting the faces and figures could be 
adopted. It is this simple kind of thing which 
never occurs to those people who will not devote 
a little time to even a slight study of the other 
branches of the craft. 

Playgoer 

Do not the actors study the other crafts of the 
theatre ? 

Stage-director 

As a rule—no, and in some ways it is opposed 
to the very life of an actor. If an actor of intelli¬ 
gence were to devote much time to the study of 
all the branches of the theatrical art he would 
gradually cease to act, and would end by becoming 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


a stage-manager—so absorbing is the whole art 
in comparison with the single craft of acting. 

Playgoer 

My friend the actor also added that if the foot¬ 
lights were removed the audience would not be 
able to see the expression of his face. 

Stage-director 

Had Henry Irving or Elenora Duse said so, the 
remark would have had some meaning. The 
ordinary actor’s face is either violently expressive 
or violently inexpressive, that it would be a bless¬ 
ing if the theatres were not only without footlights 
but without any lights at all. By the way, an 
excellent theory of the origin of the footlights is 
advanced by M. Ludovic Celler in Les Decors , les 
costumes et la mise en-scene au XVII. siecle. The 
usual way of lighting the stage was by means of 
large chandeliers, circular or triangular, which 
were suspended above the heads of the actors 
and the audience; and M. Celler is of the opinion 
that the system of footlights owes its origin to the 
small plain theatres which could not afford to have 
chandeliers, and therefore placed tallow candles 
on the floor in front of the stage. I believe this 
theory to be correct, for common sense could not 
have dictated such an artistic blunder; whereas 
the box-office receipts may easily have done so. 
Remember how little artistic virtue is in the box- 
164 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


office ! When we have time I will tell you some 
things about this same powerful usurper of the 
theatrical throne—the box-office. But let us 
return to a more serious and a more interesting 
topic than this lack of expression and this footlight 
matter. We had passed in review the different 
tasks of the stage-manager—scene, costume, 
lighting—and we had come to the most interest¬ 
ing part, that of the manipulation of the figures 
in all their movements and speeches. You ex¬ 
pressed astonishment that the acting—that is to 
say, the speaking and actions of the actors—was 
not left to the actors to arrange for themselves. 
But consider for an instant the nature of this work. 
Would you have that which has already grown 
into a certain unified pattern, suddenly spoiled 
by the addition of something accidental ? 

Playgoer 

How do you mean ? I understand what you 
suggest, but will you not show me more exactly 
how the actor can spoil the pattern ? 

Stage-director 

Unconsciously spoil it, mind you ! I do not 
for an instant mean that it is his wish to be out 
of harmony with his surroundings, but he does 
so through innocence. Some actors have the right 
instincts in this matter, and some have none 
whatever. But even those whose instincts are 
165 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


most keen cannot remain in the pattern, cannot 
be harmonious, without following the directions 
of the stage-manager. 

Playgoer 

Then you do not even permit the leading actor 
and actress to move and act as their instincts and 
reason dictate ? 

Stage-director 

No, rather must they be the very first to follow 
the direction of the stage-manager, so often do they 
become the very centre of the pattern—the very 
heart of the emotional design. 

Playgoer 

And is that understood and appreciated by 
them ? 

Stage-director 

Yes, but only when they realize and appreciate 
at the same time that the play, and the right and 
just interpretation of the play, is the all-important 
thing in the modern theatre. Let me illustrate 
this point to you. The play to be presented is 
Romeo and Juliet. We have studied the play, 
prepared scene and costume, lighted both, and now 
our rehearsals for the actors commence. The first 
movement of the great crowd of unruly citizens 
of Verona, fighting, swearing, killing each other, 
appals us. It horrifies us that in this white little 
166 



^ THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


city of roses and song and love there should dwell 
this amazing and detestable hate which is ready 
to burst out at the very church doors, or in the 
middle of the May‘festival, or under the windows 
of the house of a newly born girl. Quickly follow¬ 
ing on this picture, and even while we remember 
the ugliness which larded both faces of Capulet 
and Montague, there comes strolling down the 
road the son of Montague, our Romeo, who is 
soon to be lover and the loved of his Juliet. There¬ 
fore, whoever is chosen to move and speak as 
Romeo must move and speak as part and parcel 
of the design—this design which I have already 
pointed out to you as having a definite form. He 
must move across our sight in a certain way, 
passing to a certain point, in a certain light, his 
head at a certain angle, his eyes, his feet, his 
whole body in tune with the play, and not (as 
is often the case) in tune with his own thoughts 
only, and these out of harmony with the play. 
For his thoughts (beautiful as they may chance 
to be) may not match the spirit or the pattern 
which has been so carefully prepared by the 
director. 

Playgoer 

Would you have the stage-manager control the 
movements of whoever might be impersonating 
the character of Romeo, even if he were a fine 
actor ? 


167 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Most certainly; and the finer the actor the finer 
his intelligence and taste, and therefore the more 
easily controlled. In fact, I am speaking in par¬ 
ticular of a theatre wherein all the actors are men 
of refinement and the manager a man of peculiar 
accomplishments. 


Playgoer 

But are you not asking these intelligent actors 
almost to become puppets ? 

Stage-director 

A sensitive question ! which one would expect 
from an actor who felt uncertain about his powers. 
A puppet is at present only a doll, delightful 
enough for a puppet show. But for a theatre we 
need more than a doll. Yet that is the feeling 
which some actors have about their relationship 
with the stage-manager. They feel they are 
having their strings pulled, and resent it, and show 
they feel hurt—insulted. 

Playgoer 

I can understand that. 

Stage-director 

And cannot you also understand that they should 
be willing to be controlled ? Consider for a moment 
the relationship of the men on a ship, and you will 
168 



o THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


understand what I consider to be the relationship 
of men in a theatre. Who are the workers on a 
ship ? 

Playgoer 

A ship ? Why, there is the captain, the com¬ 
mander, the first, second and third lieutenants, the 
navigation officer, and so on, and the crew. 

Stage-director 

Well, and what is it that guides the ship ? 
Playgoer 

The rudder ? 

Stage-director 
Yes, and what else ? 

Playgoer 

The steersman who holds the wheel of the rudder. 
Stage-director 

And who else ? 

Playgoer 

The man who controls the steersman. 

Stage-director 
And who is that ? 

Playgoer 

The navigation officer. 

Stage-director 

And who controls the navigation officer ? 

169 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

The captain. 

Stage-director 

And are any orders which do not come from the 
captain, or by his authority, obeyed ? 

Playgoer 

No, they should not be. 

Stage-director 

And can the ship steer its course in safety 
without the captain ? 

Playgoer 

It is not usual. 

Stage-director 

And do the crew obey the captain and his officers? 
Playgoer 

Yes, as a rule. 


Willingly ? 
Yes. 


Stage-director 

Playgoer 


Stage-director 

And is that not called discipline ? 


Playgoer 


Yes. 

Stage-director 

And discipline—what is that the result of ? 

170 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

The proper and willing subjection to rules and 
principles. 

Stage-director 

And the first of those principles is obedience, 
is it not ? 

Playgoer 

It is. 

Stage-director 

Very well, then. It will not be difficult for you 
to understand that a theatre in which so many 
hundred persons are engaged at work is in many 
respects like a ship, and demands like manage¬ 
ment. And it will not be difficult for you to see 
how the slightest sign of disobedience would be 
disastrous. Mutiny has been well anticipated in 
the navy, but not in the theatre. The navy has 
taken care to define, in clear and unmistakable 
voice, that the captain of the vessel is the king, and 
a despotic ruler into the bargain. Mutiny on a 
ship is dealt with by a court-martial, and is put 
down by very severe punishment, by imprisonment, 
or by dismissal from the service. 

Playgoer 

But you are not going to suggest such a possi¬ 
bility for the theatre ? 

Stage-director 

The theatre, unlike the ship, is not made for 

171 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


purposes of war, and so for some unaccountable 
reason discipline is not held to be of such vital im¬ 
portance, whereas it is of as much importance as in 
any branch of service. But what I wish to show you 
is that until discipline is understood in a theatre to be 
willing and reliant obedience to the manager or cap¬ 
tain no supreme achievement can be accomplished. 

Playgoer 

But are not the actors, scene-men, and the rest 
all willing workers ? 

Stage-director 

Why, my dear friend, there never were such 
glorious natured people as these men and women 
of the theatre. They are enthusiastically willing, 
but sometimes their judgment is at fault, and they 
become as willing to be unruly as to be obedient, 
and as willing to lower the standard as to raise it. 
As for nailing the flag to the mast—this is seldom 
dreamed of—for compromise and the vicious doctrine 
of compromise with the enemy is preached by the 
officers of the theatrical navy. Our enemies are 
vulgar display, the lower public opinion, and ignor¬ 
ance. To these our “ officers ” wish us to knuckle 
under. What the theatre people have not yet quite 
comprehended is the value of a high standard and 
the value of a director who abides by it. 

Playgoer 

And that director, why should he not be an 
actor or a scene-painter ? 

172 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Do you pick your leader from the ranks, exalt 
him to be captain, and then let him handle the 
guns and the ropes ? No; the director of a theatre 
must be a man apart from any of the crafts. He 
must be a man who knows but no longer handles 
the ropes. 

Playgoer 

But I believe it is a fact that many well-known 
leaders in the theatres have been actors and stage- 
managers at the same time ? 

Stage-director 

Yes, that is so. But you will not find it easy 
to assure me that no mutiny was heard of under 
their rule. Right away from all this question of 
positions there is the question of the art, the work. 
If an actor assumes the management of the stage, 
and if he is a better actor than his fellows, a natural 
instinct will lead him to make himself the centre 
of everything. He will feel that unless he does 
so the work will appear thin and unsatisfying. 
He will pay less heed to the play than he will to 
his own part, and he will, in fact, gradually cease 
to look upon the work as a whole. And this is 
not good for the work. This is not the way a 
work of art is to be produced in the theatre. 

Playgoer 

But might it not be possible to find a great 
173 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE o 


actor who would be so great an artist that as 
manager he would never do as you say, but who 
would always handle himself as actor, just the 
same as he handles the rest of the material ? 

Stage-director 

All things are possible, but, firstly, it is against 
the nature of an actor to do as you suggest; 
secondly, it is against the nature of the stage- 
manager to perform; and thirdly, it is against 
all nature that a man can be in two places at once. 
Now, the place of the actor is on the stage, in a 
certain position, ready by means of his brains to 
give suggestions of certain emotions, surrounded 
by certain scenes and people; and it is the place 
of the stage-manager to be in front of this, that 
he may view it as a whole. So that you see even 
if we found our perfect actor who was our perfect 
stage-manager, he could not be in two places at 
the same time. Of course we have sometimes 
seen the conductor of a small orchestra playing 
the part of the first violin, but not from choice, 
and not to a satisfactory issue; neither is it the 
practice in large orchestras. 

Playgoer 

I understand, then, that you would allow no 
one to rule on the stage except the stage-manager ? 

Stage-director 

The nature of the work permits nothing else. 

174 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

Not even the playwright ? 

Stage-director 

Only when the playwright has practised and 
studied the crafts of acting, scene-painting, cos¬ 
tume, lighting, and dance, not otherwise. But 
playwrights, who have not been cradled in the 
theatre, generally know little of these crafts. 
Goethe, whose love for the theatre remained ever 
fresh and beautiful, was in many ways one of the 
greatest of stage-directors. But, when he linked 
himself to the Weimar theatre, he forgot to do 
what the great musician who followed him remem¬ 
bered. Goethe permitted an authority in the 
theatre higher than himself, that is to say, the 
owner of the theatre. Wagner was careful to 
possess himself of his theatre, and become a sort 
of feudal baron in his castle. 

Playgoer 

Was Goethe’s failure as a theatre director due 
to this fact ? 

Stage-director 

Obviously, for had Goethe held the keys of the 
doors that impudent little poodle would never 
have got as far as its dressing-room; the leading 
lady would never have made the theatre and her¬ 
self immortally ridiculous; and Weimar would 
175 



<-> THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


have been saved the tradition of having perpetrated 
the most shocking blunder which ever occurred 
inside a theatre. 

Playgoer 

The traditions of most theatres certainly do not 
seem to show that the artist is held in much respect 
on the stage. 

Stage-director 

Well, it would be easy to say a number of hard 
things about the theatre and its ignorance of art. 
But one does not hit a thing which is down, unless, 
perhaps, with the hope that the shock may cause 
it to leap to its feet again. And our Western 
theatre is very much down. The East still boasts 
a theatre. Ours here in the West is on its 
legs. But I look for a Renaissance. 

Playgoer 

How will that come ? 

Stage-director 

Through the advent of a man who shall contain 
in him all the qualities which go to make up a 
master of the theatre, and through the reform 
of the theatre as an instrument. When that is 
accomplished, when the theatre has become a 
masterpiece of mechanism, when it has invented 
a technique, it will without any effort develop a 
creative art of its own. But the whole question 
of the development of the craft into a self-reliant 
176 




























PSYCHE 


U E O 


. 


THE FIRST DIALOG 

have been saved the tradition of having per . t.at< r 
the most shocking blonde - r hich ever occurred 
inside a theatre. 

PL A V<3G£R 

The traditions of mod theatres cerlnidy not 
seem to show that the a rVr t. is held in much respect 
on the stage. 

Stage * ihhectoh 

Well, it would be easy to say a number of hard 
things about the theatre and its ignorance ot <~rt. 
But one does not hit a thing hich is down, unless, 
perhaps, with the hope that the shock may cause 
JHO l B°i 

heatre is very ir>i»eh • bast id ; 

a the>dT£ licit* 'k?t& m { t est is on itr r*. ->». 
kgs* But I b k i" • d '‘i- >>ace* 


Through the advent oi a man who s ail contain 
in him all the qus> ities which go to ma! up a 
master of the theatre, and through the reform 
of the theatre as an instrument. When t . 
accomplished, when the theatre has become a 
masterpiece of mechanism, when it has invented 
a technique, it will without any effort develop a 
c: ,.e art of its own. But the whole question 

o che development of the craft into a self-reliant 
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TIIE FIRST DIALOGUE 


and creative art would take too long to go thoroughly 
into at present. There are already some theatre men 
at work on the building of the theatres; some are 
reforming the acting, some the scenery. And all of 
this must be of some small value. But the very first 
thing to be realized is that little or no result can 
come from the reforming of a single craft of the 
theatre without at the same time, in the same 
theatre, reforming all the other crafts. The whole 
renaissance of the Art of the Theatre depends upon 
the extent that this is realized. The Art of the 
Theatre, as I have already told you, is divided up 
into so many crafts : acting, scene, costume, lighting, 
carpentering, singing, dancing, etc., that it must 
be realized at the commencement that entire, 
not part reform is needed; and it must be realized 
that one part, one craft, has a direct bearing upon 
each of the other crafts in the theatre, and that 
no result can come from fitful, uneven reform, 
but only from a systematic progression. There¬ 
fore, the reform of the Art of the Theatre is possible 
to those men alone who have studied and practised 
all the crafts of the theatre. 

Playgoer 

That is to say, your ideal stage-manager. 

Stage-director 

Yes. You will remember that at the commence¬ 
ment of our conversation I told you my belief in the 
N 177 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Renaissance of the Art of the Theatre was based in 
my belief in the Renaissance of the stage-director, and 
that when he had understood the right use of actors, 
scene, costume, lighting, and dance, and by means 
of these had mastered the crafts of interpretation, 
he would then gradually acquire the mastery of 
action, line, colour, rhythm, and words, this last 
strength developing out of all the rest. . . . Then 
I said the Art of the Theatre would have won back 
its rights, and its work would stand self-reliant 
as a creative art, and no longer as an interpretative 
craft. 

Playgoer 

Yes, and at the time I did not quite understand 
what you meant, and though I can now understand 
your drift, I do not quite in my mind’s eye see the 
stage without its poet. 

Stage-director 

What ? Shall anything be lacking when the 
poet shall no longer write for the theatre ? 

Playgoer 

The play will be lacking. 

Stage-director 

Are you sure of that ? 

Playgoer 

Well, the play will certainly not exist if the poet 
or playwright is not there to write it. 

178 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Stage-director 

There will not be any play in the sense in which 
you use the word. 

Playgoer 

But you propose to present something to the 
audience, and I presume before you are able to 
present them with that something you must have 
it in your possession. 

Stage-director 

Certainly; you could not have made a surer 
remark. Where you are at fault is to take for 
granted, as if it were a law for the Medes and 
Persians, that that something must be made of 
words. 

Playgoer 

Well, what is this something which is not words, 
but for presentation to the audience ? 

Stage-director 

First tell me, is not an idea something ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, but it lacks form. 

Stage-director 

Well, but is it not permissible to give an idea 
whatever form the artist chooses ? 

N 2 179 



o THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

Yes. 

Stage-director 

And is it an unpardonable crime for the 
theatrical artist to use some different material 
to the poet’s ? 

Playgoer 

No. 

Stage-director 

Then we are permitted to attempt to give form 
to an idea in whatever material we can find or 
invent, provided it is not a material which should 
be put to a better use ? 

Playgoer 

Yes. 

Stage-director 

Very good; follow what I have to say for the 
next few minutes, and then go home and think 
about it for a while. Since you have granted all 
I asked you to permit, I am now going to tell you 
out of what material an artist of the theatre of 
the future will create his masterpieces. Out of 
action, scene, and voice. Is it not very simple ? 

And when I say action , I mean both gesture and 
dancing, the prose and poetry of action. 

When I say scene, I mean all which comes before 
t he eye, such as the lighting, costume, as well as 
the scenery. 


180 



THE FIRST DIALOGUE 


When I say voice , I mean the spoken word or 
the word which is sung, in contradiction to the word 
which is read, for the word written to be spoken 
and the word written to be read are two entirely 
different things. 

And now, though I have but repeated what I 
told you at the beginning of our conversation, I 
am delighted to see that you no longer look so 
puzzled. 

Berlin : 1905 . 


181 



THE ART OF THE THEATEE 
THE SECOND DIALOGUE 


A PLAYGOER AND A STAGE DIRECTOR SPEAK. 
Playgoer 

I am glad to see you again after so long an 
absence. Where have you been ? 


Stage-director 

Abroad. 

Playgoer 

What have you been doing all this time ? 
Stage-director 

Hunting. 

Playgoer 

Have you turned sportsman, then ? 


Stage-director 

I have; it keeps one in good health. It exercises 
all the muscles. I shall do better work when I 
recommence. 

Playgoer 

Tell me about it all, where you have been hunting 
and what you have bagged. 

Stage-director 

I have bagged nothing, for the beast that has 
occupied me is not caught like a rabbit or a hare, 
and is far more wary than a fox. Besides, the 
182 




o THE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


sport is not in the kill; the sport lies in the difficul¬ 
ties which must be surmounted to get at the beast, 
and there is no danger at all after you have found 
him; I have been hunting the monster of a Fable. 

Playgoer 

Which one ? The Chimaera, the Hydra or the 
Hippogriff ? 

Stage-director 

All of them in one. They are the composite 
parts of an absurd monster called The Theatrical , 1 
and I have tracked this terrible creature into its 
thousand-and-one caverns and conquered him. 

Playgoer 

You have destroyed him ? 

Stage-director 

Yes—I have made friends with him. 

Playgoer 

Was there any need for you to have gone abroad 
to do this simple piece of by-play ? 

Stage-director 

Certainly, for it was only abroad that I found out 
the poor thing’s weak spots. I was really a little 
frightened at his roar in England, and the reports 
of his cave and its collection of dry skulls were 
certainly most terrifying. But when I got abroad 

1 See note, p. 291. 

183 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


I began to hunt cautiously, and found him one day 
dancing, another day making imitations of me, and 
the third day he invited me into his cave. 

Naturally I accepted the invitation and took 
bearings. I can now bring him down when I will— 
only the poor dear would never forgive me and I 
should never forgive myself. 

Playgoer 

I don’t know what you are talking about, but 
I suppose it’s all right. It would amuse me much 
better if you would stay at home and produce a few 
plays instead of wandering about Europe pretending 
to hunt. 

Stage-director 

But why didn’t you say so years ago ? I should 
never have dreamed of foreign lands if you had but 
signified your desire for me to stay at home. “ One 
must live,” as your Dramatic Critic of The Times 
said to the Censor Committee, one cannot merely 
exist on the spoils of other people’s wars; and so I 
took to sport and have not known a day’s disillusion 
since. 

Playgoer 

And I have never before felt so disillusioned. 

Stage-director 

Why, what is the matter with you ? 

184 



^>THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

I hate the theatre. 

Stage-director 

Come now, you exaggerate; you used to love it. 
I remember you once asked me all sorts of questions 
about the Art of the Theatre, and we had no end of 
a talk. 

Playgoer 

I hate it now—I never go inside a theatre now, 
and the reports, paragraphs, announcements and 
interviews make me laugh. 

Stage-director 

Why is that ? 

Playgoer 

That is what I want to know. 

Stage-director 

Oh, you want me to be your doctor. You are 
hungry for the Theatre and you can’t swallow it as 
it is; you want a cure. Well, I can’t cure you, for 
I cannot alter the Theatre in a day or during your 
lifetime, but if you would like to know what your 
old love the Theatre is going to be one day I will 
tell you. 

Playgoer 

You told me that a long time ago, and that has 
only helped to make me discontented. 

185 



o T HE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

That is what I hoped; but now if you will only 
be patient I believe I can do something else. 

Playgoer 

Don’t tell me anything more about the Art, or 
the Temples which are to contain the Art, or how 
its three component parts are Action, Scene and 
Voice, for all that is more awful to me than your 
Chimaera Hippogriff monster seemed to you; it is 
all so enormous, too enormous, and impossible. I 
must be 6000 years old before it comes, and I must 
change all my beliefs and customs—so say nothing 
more about that, I beg of you. 

Stage-director 

Agreed. Not a word on that awful subject shall 
pass my lips—till you permit it. 

Playgoer 

I feel better already. I don’t know how it is, 
but whenever I see you coming an awful dread seizes 
me; my teeth chatter, my eyes dilate, my hopes 
leave me. “ Will he begin ? ” I think; “ will he 
start telling me about the Art of the Theatre of the 
Future ? ” 

You see, it isn’t that I don’t believe every word 
you say about it all; what chokes me is to see you 
1S6 



O THE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


taking it all so quietly. I would do much to assist 
in the realization of your dream, but I see nowhere 
to begin, and you seem to believe that, when you 
have told me your idea, it has been realized—you 
leave no one anything else to do. 

Stage-director 

That is not my intention. 

Playgoer 

Maybe not, but that is the impression you leave 
with me. 

Stage-director 

I can only apologize, and now that I have 
promised not to touch on the Art of the Theatre I 
propose to amuse you with the affairs of the Theatre. 
To-night you will buy two stalls for a musical 
comedy. 

Playgoer 

I have not been inside a theatre for two years; 
that was due to your last talk with me, and now 
you propose to talk me round again into the 
Gaiety. 

Stage-director 

Yes, that is it. The Gaiety Theatre, two stalls, 
third row, near the end of the row. 

Now to begin—and try and not interrupt me 
until I have done. 

Some years ago I told you about some giant’s 
187 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


work; we talked about the Theatre, and the pro¬ 
portion of my suggestions staggered you. I showed 
you too much. Since then I have shown more. 
All this has disheartened you. Now I shall show 
you less, also the very least. You shall have no 
complaint to make against me. When I spoke to 
you before it was as artist, and artists have the 
same stuff in them as aviators—they can fly. But 
now I come to earth and shall talk to you like an 
ordinary stage-manager, who is less of an artist 
than an administrator; in short, even at the risk 
of boring a good friend, I shall speak 'practically to 
you. 

You love the Theatre. The fact of your not 
going inside one for a couple of years proves it. 
You had a new ideal and you never found it 
realized there. The ideal to be realized needed 
artists: there were none in the Theatre. You love 
the Theatre still; you would give your head for 
some good reason for going there again, and I am 
going to give you a reason. It needs you. 

Playgoer 

Maybe : but it no longer interests me. I cannot 
give my reasons without giving offence to many of 
those who have formerly given me much pleasure. 

Stage-director 


For instance ? 


188 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Playgoer 

Well, if I call the actor at the Lyceum theatrical 
he will be offended; if I find the production at the 
Elysium vulgar I offend the producer, whom I know 
personally. Besides, however much I may protest, 
the actor and the producer are unable to change 
their methods. I can neither applaud as formerly 
nor protest as I do to you, and owing to this I am, 
as I tell you, entirely without interest. 

Stage-director 

If the cause of your discontent could be removed 
your interest would revive ? 

Playgoer 

Immediately. 


Stage-director 

Tell me, at what are you dissatisfied ? I am 
neither the actor nor the producer. 

Playgoer 

No; but to express it definitely at all would 
make me feel like a traitor to all I once loved. 


Stage-director 

Ah! then it is you that have changed, not the 
theatres. 


Playgoer 


Perhaps, perhaps. 


189 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Stage-director 

And you have developed your sense of what is 
beautiful. Is it possible, then, that I see before 
me the ideal spectator in person—that you have 
become one of that audience which London has 
been for so long trying to “ educate ” ? 

Playgoer 

No, not that; not so ideal as all that; but maybe 
you are right that I have developed. The plays 
and the players cannot have altered so enormously 
in two years, whereas one’s outlook may have 
changed entirely. 

Stage-director 

And now to you everything on the stage looks as 
“ weary, stale, flat and unprofitable ” as the world 
did to Hamlet. But be practical, I beg of you. 
Look at the matter sensibly. You admit that the 
stage has not altered, that it is yourself only that 
has undergone a change. Good! Then undergo 
another. I do not mean change back again, but 
change forward. 

Playgoer 

Explain to me what you mean. 

Stage-director 

You have looked at the Theatre from two points 
of view: ascend to a third and better point of view 
and see what you shall see. 

190 



^ THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

That interests me. 

Stage-director 

Follow me, then. At present your interest in 
the Theatre is on a small scale, something like the 
interest every Englishman takes in his country. 
You are in the position of a man who dislikes the 
present government, that is all. The Theatre as an 
institution is composed of as many parties as are 
the Houses of Parliament. We have the equivalent 
of the Conservatives, Liberals, Progressives, Radi¬ 
cals, Socialists, the Labour Party, and even Suffra¬ 
gettes are an established part of our institution. 

These parties take themselves all very seriously, 
and that does no harm. But above and beyond all 
parties there are the Imperialists—let us call them 
by this name, at any rate, Idealists. An Imperial¬ 
ist is an Idealist. You once belonged to some 
theatrical party or other. Let us say you were a 
Conservative. You thought little about the real 
Conservatism, but you called yourself a Conserva¬ 
tive, and soon you began to weary of the methods 
of your leaders. You naturally don’t wish to be 
a turncoat, and you are thrown into a state of 
despondency, not knowing what to do. 

Playgoer 

Well, I can’t veer round and become one of the 
opposite party, can I ? 

191 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Certainly not. You cannot honourably become 
a member of any other party. You cannot court 
a second disillusion. But there is nothing in the 
way of your becoming an Imperialist. Bear in mind 
that I use this word to express the highest ideal, 
and though I am quite uncertain what the term 
implies to you; but will you be so good as to accept 
it (for want of a better) as the best name I can apply 
to that universal party, or brotherhood, which is 
composed of people holding or tolerating many 
different, and opposite, views ? 

Playgoer 

Well, then, I am to become an Imperialist. Tell 
me how to do it. 


Stage-director 

My dear fellow, you already look yourself again. 
You are becoming positively interested. We had 
better go and look for those seats at the Gaiety at 
once. 

Playgoer 

No, stay here and go on talking. Tell me how 
to become an Imperialist. 

Stage-director 

Well, you shall book stalls for Twelfth Night at 
His Majesty’s Theatre, a bench for the Elizabethan 
Stage Society’s production of Samson Agonistes , 
192 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


upper circle for Sir Arthur Pinero’s last play at 
St. James’s, and go to the pit at the Court Theatre 
to see John Bull's Other Island. To-night to the 
Gaiety, to-morrow to hear Bach’s Passion Music 
Drama at St. Paul’s, the next evening to the 
Empire, and in the afternoon to the Cinematograph 
in Oxford Street. Neither must you omit to go 
to visit the suburbs to see our great actress as 
Portia, nor fail to attend one of the British 
Empire Shakespeare Society’s performances. You 
can do all this in ten evenings, and in the daytime, 
if you have the time, you could attend one of 
Mr. Henry Arthur Jones’s lectures on the Drama, 
a meeting of the Actors’ Association if you can get 
an invitation, and a rehearsal of a Drury Lane 
drama. In short, see the worst and best of every¬ 
thing ; see all sides of this work, and I promise you 
that you will begin to love the Theatre once more. 

Playgoer 

Good-bye. I knew you could not help me. I 
knew you would tell me to do all this. Why, man, 
I did all this two years ago ! 

Stage-director 

You are in a bad state indeed. 

Playgoer 

Yes, but do you not see it is all through you ? 
Some years ago you showed me a visionary picture 
of what the Theatre might become with its blessed 
O 193 



oTKE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


temples and its beautiful art and all the rest of it; 
and that on the one hand, and this modern Theatre 
on the other hand, have been to me like deep sea 
and devil. I can relish neither, so I avoid both. 

Stage-director 

Come abroad. I can show you a theatre in the 
north of Russia that will enchant you. 

Playgoer 

Why do you think so ? 

Stage-director 

Because without its being a temple, and all that 
you seem to dread so in my programme, it is the 
best ordered theatre in Europe. It is an example 
of what systematic reform can do in a theatre. 

Plays, actors, actresses, managers, scenery, foot¬ 
lights, limelights, opera glasses, realism, all is there, 
just as in any other theatre, with this difference 
—that it beats all other theatres at their own 
game. 

There are two kinds of Theatre possible—the 
natural and the artificial. The European theatres 
are artificial, and this theatre in the north is also 
artificial, since it makes use of the same artificial 
material as that used by the Opera House in Paris 
or His Majesty’s in London. The difference is 
in the use. Besides this their administration is 
different from that of other European theatres. 

194 



o T H E SECOND DIALOGUE 


Men are the administrators just the same as in 
England, and yet the results are different, for 
the men have remembered something which our 
administrators have never learned. 

Playgoer 

Stop giving me any more vague notions of this 
theatre and tell me in detail something of its 
method. 

Stage-director 

With pleasure. This theatre is better than 
others both in the work of the stage and in the 
manner of the administration. 

Playgoer 

In what does the work of the stage differ ? You 
say they do not use different material from that 
employed by the other theatres ? 

Stage-director 

No, the same. They use actors who paint their 
faces, scenes painted on canvas and stretched upon 
wood, footlights and other artificial lights, blank 
verse, phonographs and all the rest of it; but they 
make use of these things with taste. 

Playgoer 

But do none of the other European theatres do 
this ? 

Stage-director 

Other European theatres make only a casual 
study of this strange artificial material, and so they 
o 2 195 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE ^ 


are unable to express with any distinction, and the 
canvas and the paint appear as mere canvas and 
paint, things which in themselves are not interesting. 

Playgoer 

Then is there no other theatre where they use 
these things with taste ? 

Stage-director 

No. 

Playgoer 

I suppose the workers in the Russian theatre are 
able to use their material more tastefully because 
they have more technical knowledge ? 

Stage-director 

Yes, though I don’t understand why you ask so 
obvious a question. What do you mean ? If 
instead of a casual study they give serious and 
thorough study to their material it stands to reason 
that their technique is more perfect. 

Playgoer 

But consider the performances at the leading 
London theatres, for example. Is there no technique 
shown in the use of these materials there ? 

Stage-director 

If this were so I should not have said no. But I 
will give you an instance of what I mean. Take, 
for example, the matter of scenic mechanism. 

196 



oTKE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


There are at least nine or ten professional ways 
of bringing a moon on to the stage. We know 
how the company of actors of Messrs. Bottom and 
Quince introduced their moon; we know how the 
sumptuous revival gentlemen manage it in England; 
we know how the opera manages it, and we know 
how Professor Herkomer manages it. All these 
ways differ in so far as one inventor has been more 
careless than another in studying the exact way 
in which the moon performs its part. 

Now, after the ten different ways have been 
carefully studied by the workers in the Constan 
Theatre they will find six other ways, will reject 
five of them and adopt the sixth, which will be the 
best. And this sixth way will far exceed all other 
ways seen in Europe. I mean, of course, techni¬ 
cally, for naturally art has nothing to do with the 
reproduction of moons on the stage, and art is 
not what we are talking about here. But in every 
other way this moon will be more like actuality 
than any other moon which the theatre of Europe 
has seen for centuries. 

Playgoer 

How can you make such a statement ? You are 
not even half a century old. 

Stage-director 

No; but when a good idea has been found in the 
theatre, especially a good idea for reproducing some 
effect in Nature, it is never forgotten. Those are 
197 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


the things by which the greatest store is laid. 
Remember, I am not holding a brief for the Constan 
Theatre in any way except in the production of 
plays in which they desire to bring realistic effects, 
and I state that for the first time realistic effects 
are actually produced, that there is no slipshod work 
and no avoiding the difficulty by doing what “ was 
done last time.” 


Playgoer 

You have only proved, however, that they have 
more independence and are freer in rejecting 
traditional tricks; you have not proved to me that 
what they do is in better taste. 

Stage-director 

Well, I can but tell you it is more like Nature. 
Would you say that to be like Nature is in better 
taste, or would you say that to be like the Theatre 
is in better taste ? 


Playgoer 
Certainly to be like Nature. 

Stage-director 

Very well, then, your question is answered. 
Playgoer 

But how do the workers in this theatre arrive 
at this technical perfection which enables them to 
use their material with such taste ? 

198 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Stage-director 

How do you arrive at a technical knowledge of 
anything ? 

Playgoer 

By study, of course; but are these the only 
theatrical workers in all Europe who do study ? 

Stage-director 

I think we are speaking of technical perfection ? 
Well, then, you did not ask me whether they had 
a superficial knowledge of their craft. There are 
plenty of people who study, but who study badly. 
The Constan people study and experiment more 
carefully. 

Playgoer 

And perhaps they have more talent ? 

Stage-director 

Possibly. And, as you know, talent is a thing 
which develops by study. 

Playgoer 

Have they anything at Constan in the nature of 
a school in which to study ? 

Stage-director 

Yes, their theatre is a school. They are in the 
theatre from morning till night all the year round, 
save for a few weeks’ holiday in the summer. In 
England you can go into a theatre on many days in 
the year and find no one there except the carpenters 
199 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


and the stage-director and a few other officials. 
In Constan the place is crowded all day and night, 
and if there is a rehearsal the students are there to 
witness it; and not giggling and playing the fool, but 
watching every movement and listening to every 
word. 

Playgoer 

Whom do you mean by the students ? 

Stage-director 

Everybody. They are all students. There are 
the two directors to begin with (the third director 
occupies himself only with affairs); and these two 
directors are as much students as any one else : 
they are studying all the time. Then come the 
leading actors and actresses. There are about 
twelve of these, each one as good as any star in 
Europe. But what am I saying ? Each one is a 
much better actor or actress than the greatest stars 
in Europe. Then there are about twenty-four 
actors and actresses of what are called “ secondary 
parts.” Many of these are brilliant enough to be 
included in the first category, only they have not 
served their apprenticeship long enough. 

Playgoer 

What ? If an actor shows especial talent is he 
not moved up to the first rank at once ? 

Stage-director 

No, certainly not. Not until he has gone 
200 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


through the same experience as the others, no 
matter how talented he may be. Then, besides 
these whom I have named, there are the very 
young students. There are about twenty of these. 
They are most of them men and women from the 
universities; and the girls are not chosen just 
because they look pretty, but, with the men, are 
selected for their capabilities. 

Playgoer 

Is this not so in other lands ? 

Stage-director 

Most certainly not. Half the girls on the English 
stage are chosen because they look pretty. 

Playgoer 

But an actress’s looks are surely a matter of 
importance ? 

Stage-director 

Yes, of great importance, and should form part 
of her studies. It has never occurred to the English 
actresses that it is a part of their work, and a part 
which needs great talent and application, to make 
themselves look nice. Some of your most talented 
actresses in England are by no means what are 
called pretty girls. That is to say, their features 
are far from perfect, their complexions are not so 
fresh as that of an Irish girl on the lakes, but they 
have the talent by which they can make themselves 
201 



oTTLE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


look this, or that, or the other. Just as it is a part 
of the actor’s talent and study to be able to make 
his face into a grotesque mask, so is it part of an 
actress’s talent and study to make herself look 
beautiful when she wishes. When this is fully 
realized young ladies will cease putting their looks 
forward as a reason for obtaining an engagement, 
and the stage will be less overcrowded and better 
filled. 

But now, to return to the number of workers at 
Const an. We had got as far as the students. 
Besides and below these are the probationers. 

Playgoer 

Who are they ? 

Stage-director 

They are young people who apply to be admitted 
to the theatre as students. They are told that they 
must work for a certain time—I believe one or two 
years—in order to become candidates for the school. 
Then after an examination before the directors 
and stage-managers and actors some of them are 
selected and put into the school. 

Playgoer 

What kind of examination do they undergo ? 

Stage-director 

Each candidate prepares a poem and a fable for 
recitation. And the examination of the candidates 
202 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


at this theatre proves conclusively that it is the 
directors of the theatre, and not the Russians, that 
are so remarkable; for these candidates are no 
different from any other stage aspirants in regard 
to their talent for dramatic expression. They are 
different from other students only in that they are 
more educated than other theatrical aspirants, 
many of them having a considerable knowledge of 
literature, foreign languages, art and science. 

On passing their examination they are put into 
the school, in which they work daily for a term of 
years, and in the evenings they may be required 
to fill those parts known as “walking on parts.” 
Thus, while they are studying at the school they 
are in the midst of the acting nearly every evening, 
and at the end of a few years it is possible, or nearly 
certain, that they may be offered a small engagement 
by the theatre in which they are working. So that 
here we have, you see, a standing company of about 
one hundred. 


Playgoer 

What do you mean by a standing company ? 
Stage-director 

The same as is meant by a standing army. 
Playgoer 

Then do not the actors leave to take better 
engagements ? 

203 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Stage-director 

No, for there can be no better engagement. To 
be a member of the Constan Art Theatre is the 
ambition of every actor in Russia. 


Playgoer 

Would a very talented actor from another theatre 
apply for membership in this company ? 

Stage-director 

Maybe; but it would take him some time to 
get into the particular atmosphere which has been 
created by this company, and in order to do this 
he would possibly have to take very small parts to 
begin with. 

Playgoer 

Then the work there differs entirely from that 
in other theatres, and any one entering would feel 
very much at sea ? 

Stage-director 

Precisely. 

Playgoer 

Are all the students training to be actors ? 


Yes. 


Stage-director 


Playgoer 

Then, they do not train stage-directors 1 


Stage-director 

Before you can be a stage-director you must have 
204 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


first been an actor. Their stage-directors are only 
produced last of all. After they have been several 
years acting it may be that one or another will show 
some talent as stage-manager. This talent is given 
an opportunity for showing itself and developing 
itself in the following manner— 

At the end of each season the school performs 
certain scenes from about ten or twelve different 
plays. In 1909, among the plays which the 
students selected were the following : Elga and 
Hannele by Hauptmann, a play by Sudermann, 
When We Dead Awaken by Ibsen, La Locandiera 
by Goldoni, La Citta Morta by D’Annunzio, 
UAvare by Moliere, and about three or four plays 
by Russian authors. 

These scenes are in each case represented by 
different members of the school, and a different 
stage-manager is selected for each. The perform¬ 
ance takes place in the afternoon. The relations 
of the students are invited, the directors of the 
theatre, together with the company, are also present, 
and the performance affords an opportunity of 
revealing any talent for stage-management or for 
acting which may be latent in the students. The 
talent displayed in 1909 was, in my opinion, nothing 
short of remarkable. Each stage-manager has at 
his disposal all that the theatre has to offer him, 
though of course it is impossible to paint new 
scenes; still, he can show his talent by the use of 
what is at hand. 


205 



^ THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

You spoke to me once long ago about an ideal 
stage-manager, a man who would combine all the 
talents, who had been actor, scene and costume 
designer; who understood the lighting of the play, 
the formation of dance, and the sense of rhythms; 
who could rehearse the actors in their parts; who 
could, in short, with his own brain, finish that work 
which the poet, for all stage purposes, had left in 
an unfinished condition. Do you find any such in 
Constan ? 

Stage-director 

I find the nearest approach to such a man. 
There is very little that the rdgisseurs there cannot 
do. 

Playgoer 

There are many people who would say that after 
all there is nothing very different in this theatre 
from other theatres except the difference of its 
greater thoroughness. 

Stage-director 

Then, now, I will try and show you wherein the 
essential difference really lies. I have been able 
so far to explain to you something of the system. 
I have tried to show you how superior the Russian 
method is to any other, but I still do not expect 
you to understand entirely what I mean, and I 
admit that it would be utterly impossible to explain 
the chief reason of this theatre’s superiority till you 
206 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


have come into touch with the men who have 
trained in the theatre and, above all, with the man 
who has trained them—the director. There lies 
the secret, and it will be buried with him. You 
would understand what I have been telling you if 
you were to see him, but even then you still could 
not lay his secret bare to any practical advantage. 

Playgoer 

Do you who have seen him understand their 
secret ? 

Stage-director 

1 understand it; but I could not make any one 
else understand it, for the reason that it is one of 
those simple things which no amount of coaxing 
can create, and no amount of antagonism can 
destroy, and no amount of explanation explain. 

Playgoer 

And what is it ? 

Stage-director 

Passionate love for the Theatre ; and I can say to 
you without any fear of being thought profane: 
“ Greater love hath no man than this, that a man 
lay down his life for his work.” 

Playgoer 

But do they not love the stage in this way in the 
other theatres ? 


207 



o T HE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

No, they do not—they do not. There are other 
things for which they would far sooner give their 
lives before their work; for social success, financial 
success. They are only willing to devote their lives 
if they can get either of these things in exchange. 
In Constan they have but one desire—that is, to do 
the best work. Do you think I am severe upon the 
other theatres ? 

I am not. I am prepared to tell any theatre 
what it is working for and to point out the difference 
between its aim and that of the Constan Theatre. 
I call to mind the best theatres in Europe and I see 
clearly what it is they want. It is quite possible 
that there are many theatres unknown to me, and 
that in those theatres there are men to whom I 
do a great injustice by seeming to include them in 
this accusation; but I speak only of those theatres 
known to me. They are supposed to be the first 
theatres in Europe. In my opinion they are the 
very last. Yet it would be quite possible for the 
other theatres to be as good as the Constan Art 
Theatre, that is to say, in the first line, by merely 
being possessed of the same passionate love for the 
Theatre. 

And now to tell you a few things about the 
Administration. 

Playgoer 

That is what I want to hear about. 

208 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Stage-director 

To begin with, the administration is in the hands 
of a board of directors. There is the president, 
five members of the board, and the secretary, and 
five out of these seven are artists. The capital is 
vested in a stock company composed of merchants 
of the city of Constan, and, like other stock com¬ 
panies, the money and affairs are administered by a 
board of directors. 


Playgoer 

Then so far it does not differ from other theatres ? 

Stage-director 

No ? Is it usual then for artists to be in the 
majority on the board of directors ? I think you 
have overlooked this. But now tell me something. 
I am a man entirely innocent of business. Sup¬ 
posing I had found people to have enough faith in 
me to put down fifty thousand pounds to establish 
an Art Theatre in England what would be the feeling 
exhibited on the last day of the year when the report 
was read out to the shareholders showing that there 
was not a penny of dividend ? 

Playgoer 

The shareholders would examine the books, and, 
having found that the expenses exceeded the in¬ 
come, they would probably change the management, 
and advise the production of more popular pieces, 
which would bring more money into the box office. 

P 209 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Why would they do this ? 

Playgoer 

Because they put their money into the theatre 
with the idea of making more by it. 

Stage-director 

Suppose you were yourself a shareholder, and I 
were to point out to you that this thing could not 
possibly pay for one, two, or even three years, what 
would you say, knowing that there had been a 
deficit on the first year ? 

Playgoer 

I should want to examine the situation very 
thoroughly. 

Stage-director 

Oh, then, you would not entirely back out of it ? 

Playgoer 

I should look into the matter thoroughly first. 

Stage-director 

I should take it, then, that you had become a 
shareholder because you were interested not only in 
the making of money but in the work itself ? 

Playgoer 

Yes; but as I am a business man my primary 
object would be to make money. 

210 



o T HE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Would you think that it would be a practical 
move on your part to go on supporting such a 
theatre if it paid no dividend for the first three, 
four, or five years ? 

Playgoer 

No, I should not. 

Stage-director 

Well, then, explain to me as a business man how 
it is that there have been business men found in the 
town of Constan who are content to wait for ten years 
to see the first return for their money ? 

Playgoer 

It is inexplicable to me. But I suppose that the 
making of money must to them have been a secon¬ 
dary consideration to the furthering of art. And 
really, if I were an extremely wealthy man myself 
I should look on that as a luxury or a hobby, and 
one which I could take pride in being connected 
with. 

Stage-director 

Well, you told me you were losing your interest 
in the drama, and you are a wealthy man. Here 
is a way to revive your interest. Connect yourself 
with such a theatre. You will remember that I 
told you a little time ago that the Theatre needed 
you. I now see the more clearly that you are the 
very man it needs. But first of all let us see whether, 
p 2 211 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


should you take such a charming step, you might 
not gain in every way without losing your money. 
Let us return to the theatre at Constan and see 
what happened there. 

Playgoer 

Yes. But tell me one thing. When was the 
first dividend declared ? 

Stage-director 

At the end of ten years. 

Playgoer 

But that might happen in any theatre; it sounds 
bad business, but is not peculiar to any particular 
enterprise. 

Stage-director 

Yes; but the fact that after ten years we find the 
original list of shareholders unchanged, and not 
only unchanged but increased, is rather unusual, is 
it not ? and certainly most encouraging. Do you 
not find it so ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, both encouraging and inspiring. I really 
do think that what you tell me is quite splendid. 
But could it be done anywhere else ? 

Stage-director 

Have you any good reason for thinking that it 
could not be done ? 


212 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Playgoer 

The fact that like propositions have failed in 
England. 

Stage-director 

Has the test ever been made ? 

Playgoer 

Probably not, for I doubt if anybody of such men 
as you describe as forming the Constan stock 
company could be found in England. 

Stage-director 

Then hath not an Englishman eyes, hath not 
an Englishman hands, organs, dimensions, senses, 
passions, affections ? Surely you must be wrong 
in what you say ? 

Playgoer 

I think not; because the drama in England and 
also in America has become merely another com¬ 
mercial means for the making of money. 

Stage-director 

So it is all over Russia—all over Europe. But if 
you can find thirty or forty such men in Russia 
you can surely find thirty or forty in England. 
Besides, think, what is the New Theatre in New 
York but such a theatre ? Do you think that its 
founders want to see a return for their money in 
the first two years ? 

Playgoer 

They might wait for two or three years before 
213 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


receiving a dividend, but they are not likely to 
wait for ten; although I do not think that the 
making of money is their primary object. 

Stage-director 

Well, then, why do you think these millionaires 
have put their money into this theatre ? 

Playgoer 

Because I think they have been brought to a 
realization that something has got to be done for 
the drama in America, and being men in a leading 
position they feel they are expected to do it. 

Stage-director 

And if at the end of, let us say, five years, the 
public agrees that the work being done in the 
theatre is perfect, yet the directors know that there 
has been no profit, will they continue to support it, 
or will they say that the work is less perfect because 
the theatre has failed to return a dividend ? 

Playgoer 

If they realized that the public was satisfied 
they would continue. But tell me, if the public 
was satisfied would not that mean that the theatre 
had been full every evening ? 

Stage-director 

Not exactly, though it might mean that it had 
been very fairly full every evening. But you must 
214 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE 


not forget that the expenses of running such a 
theatre are very great. The Constan Art Theatre, 
for instance, had very nearly full houses for nearly 
ten years, but its expenses exceeded its income. 

Playgoer 

Do you not call that bad business ? 

Stage-director 

I cannot give an opinion upon business. But 
let me put it to you more clearly, and do you then 
decide. This Russian theatre has had full houses, 
it has produced plays which the public has said 
are perfect; it is the first theatre in the land; it 
has done what it set out to do. Do you not call 
that good business ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, I do. 

Stage-director 

Would you call it good business to have built up 
a reputation which is second to none in Europe ? 
—to be able to command a vast public and the 
enthusiastic support of staunch shareholders ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, I suppose I should. 

Stage-director 

You would agree that the shareholders have in 
their possession something by means of which they 
can now realize what money they like ? 

215 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

How can they do so ? 

Stage-director 

By building a second theatre, a large theatre, 
and by touring round the world. 

Playgoer 

Where is the money coming from when you say 
that they have only just begun to realize a slight 
dividend ? 

Stage-director 

It will be found. When you ask me to say how, 
why I can only refer you to the work of the last ten 
years. Nothing daunted the workers in this theatre, 
or seemed to deter them from doing what they 
wanted to do. They will build this theatre, they 
will continue to give the public the best works in 
the best way, and they will set an example to the 
rest of Europe. 

Playgoer 

Rather a costly example ! 

Stage-director 

Not so costly when you think of it for a moment. 
It is the belief in Europe that the Russians are 
composed of people less interested in art than any 
one else. In this their reputation resembles that 
of the English. There is a general idea also that 
they are a kind of savage race, and by making this 
216 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


demonstration through the artistic theatre they 
have shown clearly that they are nothing of the 
kind. In a way this is really a national theatre in 
the best sense of the word, for the shareholders 
have the interests of their nation at heart. This 
theatre, as I have said, will no doubt visit the 
centres of Europe, and at each visit the refinement 
and culture and courage of Russia will be made 
manifest. In short, it is a very clever commercial 
stroke on a very large scale, and English men could 
do worse than follow their lead. Money that has 
been sunk in this theatre is not wasted money, and 
we shall shortly see the fruits of it. Don’t you 
think that is so ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, I think so; but looking at it in that light, 
it takes it right away from the commercial theatre. 

Stage-director 

Why, of course it does. I was speaking of the 
theatre as an asset of the nation. 

Playgoer 

Yes ? Well, we are going to have a National 
Theatre in England. 

Stage-director 

Not at all. We are going to have a Society 
Theatre. That in my opinion is very much what 
the New Theatre in America is—a society theatre. 
Now nobody wants a society theatre, least of all 
the ladies and gentlemen who are obliged to go and 
217 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


sit in their boxes and stalls while they are bored to 
death by the dull performances which take place 
on the stage. Such society theatres bore and 
impoverish every city of Europe. There is the 
Opera in Paris, the Schauspielhaus in Berlin, 
in Munich, in Vienna. They are not national 
Theatres in the real sense of the word. The 
men who will make a national theatre in 
England are the same kind of men as those who 
have made this theatre in Russia. If they are 
to be expensive they must not be a bore, these 
theatres. The proposed “ national ” theatre for 
London is national in name only. It has no 
programme, and yet it asks for subscriptions on the 
strength of one. The committee may force sub¬ 
scriptions, but no amount of forcing can raise the 
wits—and it is wits and taste that we want in our 
Theatre. Now the Russians commence founding 
their national theatre by first founding an artistic 
theatre and testing its honesty of purpose for ten 
years. Which of these strikes you as the better 
method of obtaining a finely organized national 
theatre—the English or the Russian ? Which is 
the most economic, the most regular ? Which seems 
to you the Tightest ? In short, if you had a theatre 
which method would you yourself employ ? 

Playgoer 

The Russian method—if I had the type of men 
and the same point of view. 

218 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Their point of view differs very slightly from that 
of any of the English managements, for we must 
believe the English managers when they assure us 
that their aim is to do the best possible work. 
Perhaps the men are of a different strain. But 
you could find as clever and as enthusiastic fellows 
over here, and if there is less sympathetic under¬ 
standing of each other’s wishes there is more sense 
of discipline in Englishmen. 

Playgoer 

Then a theatre such as the Constan Art Theatre 
could be founded here ? 

Stage-director 

A theatre, yes; and two or three such theatres. 

Playgoer 

That would indeed be an excellent thing. 

Stage-director 

And is it not practical ? 

Playgoer 

I should say absolutely practical. 

Stage-director 

Ah, how quick you are to see it and to acquiesce 
now that it has been done ! If I were to say that 
what I had been telling you was but an idea of 
219 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE ^ 


mine, which I believed in entirely, would that con¬ 
vince you as to its practicality ? You are one of 
the dearest good fellows, but, by Jove, when you 
are asked to believe in that which does not yet 
exist you are as coy about the whole thing as though 
you were a woman. 

The Constan Art Theatre has been in existence 
for over ten years, so you believe in it and cry out 
that it is “ absolutely practical.” 

Playgoer 

Well, but isn’t it ? And how can you ask any one 
in his senses to believe in a scheme which has not 
been tried ? 


Stage-director 

Caution is never bad : it is the English habit 
of being over-cautious that blights so many, many 
spirited ideas which only need the right support 
to bring them into the plane of actuality. And it 
is not only in withholding monetary support that 
Englishmen are over-cautious : it is their moral 
support which is so often absent, which implies 
that in such matters they are sometimes very much 
lacking in moral courage. 

And now tell me again. Do you find the Russian 
method perfectly practical ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, I think it is perfectly practical. 

220 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


Stage-director 

And if I should say that though it is a very practi¬ 
cal method of carrying on a modern theatre, which 
has to open its doors to the public night after 
night, there is even a more practical method of 
pursuing the study of the Art of the Theatre, 
what would you say ? 

Playgoer 

I should say- But explain more fully what 

you mean. 

Stage-director 

I mean this: the object of all Ideal Theatres—and 
their directors—is to excel in the art which it is 
their privilege to serve. They must be unceasing 
in the pursuit of the ideal, they must ever aim to 
go beyond, and therefore they must be very, very 
far-sighted. Am I right ? 

Playgoer 

I suppose you are. Are the directors at Const an 
not far-sighted ? 

Stage-director 

Very far-sighted where their theatre is concerned, 
less so where the art is concerned. They have to 
keep their theatre open night after night; it is one 
of the difficulties with which they are always con¬ 
tending. If they could close their theatre for five 
years and spend that time in making nothing but 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


experiments they would have more time for the 
pursuit of the Ideal, which we have put down as 
being the object of all ideal theatres. 

Playgoer 

To close such a theatre for five years would be 
a very serious step to take. 

Stage-director 

Very serious; just so serious as the occasion 
demands. Most theatres in Europe might be 
closed indefinitely all the year round for fifty years 
and make experiments all the time without any 
valuable results, but this theatre in Constan is the 
exception, and it might just discover the heart of 
the mystery by so doing. And I think we should 
be just so far-sighted as to see how serious is the 
present position of the Theatre. 

Playgoer 

But no one can see farther than the vanishing 
point at any time, and I presume that point to be 
the limit which you set to the sight of any director 
—it is the farthest he can see. 

Stage-director 

Perfectly correct; but remember with each ad¬ 
vancing step the position of the vanishing point 
alters, and we are thus enabled continually to see 
farther than before. 


222 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

That is true. 

Stage-director 

Therefore an art director of a theatre who 
strives to surpass his last achievement will keep his 
eyes fixed upon this vanishing point on the horizon, 
and will thereby be enabled continually to achieve 
his ever-fixed but ever-changing desire to advance, 
no matter how slowly he may do so. Do you agree 
with me ? 

Playgoer 

I do. 

Stage-director 

What, then, is practical to him ? 

Playgoer 

All that lies before him and all that he can see. 

Stage-director 

And if he advance five steps he will see less than 
should he advance a hundred steps ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, certainly—twenty times less. 

Stage-director 

And if he advance five hundred steps he will see 
a hundred times more than if he advance but five 
steps ? 


223 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

Yes; there is no doubt about it. 

Stage-director 

And he will therefore be able to achieve a hundred 
degrees more than by advancing five steps and 
seeing five degrees farther ? 

Playgoer 

That is true. 

Stage-director 

Then, practically speaking, there is no limit to 
his achievements provided he can only see far 
enough ahead; and in order to see very far he must 
have advanced almost as far as he can see. They 
say that art is long and life is short. Do you 
believe, then, that there is much time to spare in 
delays, or would you advise those who are searching 
forwards to advance without hesitation ? 

Playgoer 

The latter, but with caution. 

Stage-director 

Yes, with caution and deliberation; but you will 
remember that we proved that it was entirely safe 
for a man to advance provided he went towards 
that which was visible to him. Now we must see 
which is the best method of reaching a spot which 
is visible to us. Do you think it is by going 
backwards ? 


224 



ROMEO AND JULIET 
Act I. Scene V. 

This design depends much on its colour to express the exact 
feeling I wished to convey. So think of it as bathed in a warm 
yellow light—the only other colour being the touches of green in the 
dresses of the Italian gentlemen who are awaiting the arrival of 
their guests. The large seat is silvery white—upon this the two 
lovers are soon to find themselves seated side by side. 



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oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE ^> 


Playgoer 

Certainly not. How could it be ? 

Stage-director 
Or by going sideways, perhaps ? 

Playgoer 

No, of course not. 

Stage-director 

Or moving in a circle, for caution’s sake ? 
Playgoer 

No. None of these ways would serve. 
Stage-director 

Why not ? 

Playgoer 

Why, they would be absurd. When you have 
seen something the best way to reach it is to go 
straight towards it. 

Stage-director 

Has this method ever been put into practice 
with success ? 

Playgoer 
Yes; nearly always. 

Stage-director 

In a hundred cases how often would you say it 
has been successful ? 

Q 


225 



^>THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

I should say in ninety cases out of a hundred. 

Stage-director 

I should think you are right, and should myself 
be inclined to say that a man can reach that which 
he can see in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred by 
going straight towards the object. The hundredth 
time I waive the right as acknowledgment to the 
Goddess Fortuna. It is also reasonable to suppose 
that by doing so he will, as we have said, save much 
time. 

Playgoer 

That is also true; but may I beg you to tell me 
what this has to do with the Theatre ? 

Stage-director 

I must ask you to follow me back to that point, 
the Theatre, a point which you have perceived, in 
a straight line and without any delay. Will you 
tell me whether the eyes are generally used for 
seeing with ? 

Playgoer 

Why, yes; of course they are. 

Stage-director 

And would you say that, in order to see, it is more 
practical to open the eyes than to close them ? 

Playgoer 

The former seems to be more sensible. 

226 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

You do not answer my question. Is it also 
practical ? 

Playgoer 

It is. 

Stage-director 

And would you say that to look in the direction 
where you have seen something a while ago is to 
stand a good chance of seeing it again ? Would you 
say that it is practical ? 

Playgoer 

I should. 

Stage-director 

And on arriving at the spot seen, and seeing 
farther on a second spot, would it be practical to 
advance farther in the same direction, so as to 
reach it ? 

Playgoer 

It would. 

Stage-director 

Very well, then; you have told me what I always 
suspected to be the truth. You have said that an 
artist with imagination is justified, and entirely 
practical, in advancing towards that which he has 
once seen in his imagination. Therefore, my dear 
fellow, you have only now to tell me one thing 
more. 

Playgoer 

What is that ? 

Q 2 


227 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

You must tell me whether it is possible for all 
people to see the same thing. 

Playgoer 

It is very unlikely. 

Stage-director 

Therefore if I have seen something it is quite 
possible that there are many people who have not 
seen the same thing; and if it has interested me it 
is quite likely that others will be curious to see it 
also ? 

Playgoer 

It generally is so with people. 

Stage-director 

You, for instance ? 

Playgoer 

Yes. 

Stage-director 

Do you think I may be allowed to show it to you 
if I am able to do so ? 

Playgoer 

Certainly you may. 

Stage-director 

If I do not show it to you you may never see it, 
so practically speaking, until I show you, it may be 
said to belong to me ? 


228 



^ THE SECOND DIALOGUE ^ 


Playgoer 

We may admit so much. 

Stage-director 

It belongs to me, then; and as it is not likely 
that I should desire to show you something which 
belongs to me in a damaged condition I must be 
very careful of the method I employ to transfer 
it from its situation to your presence. I must be 
practical ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, your method must be essentially practical 
if you wish to avoid all accidents. 

Stage-director 

And by practical you mean—what ? 

Playgoer 

The meaning of the word practical is that which 
is possible of accomplishment. 

Stage-director 

You are right. And is there but one way of 
accomplishing everything ? 

Playgoer 

No, there is generally more than one way. Why 
do you ask ? 

Stage-director 

You must forgive me for the assumption, but 
my intention was to ascertain whether you con- 
229 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


fused the phrase the “ practical way ” with another 
phrase, the “ usual way,” or with a third, the 
“ matter-of-fact way.” 

Playgoer 

Most certainly not. 

Stage-director 

Again forgive me; but to confuse the meaning of 
the word “practical” has become so usual lately, 
especially wdien speaking of the Theatre. Let us 
proceed : I was saying that if I had something 
which belonged to me and wanted to show it to 
you I must take great care, if I wished to bring it 
to you without in any way damaging it. 

Playgoer 

Yes. 

Stage-director 

Of course we admit the supposition that I cannot 
take you to see it, and there are some things which 
are so situated. The North Pole, for instance; or 
an idea—and to all intents and purposes the 
North Pole is nothing more nor less than an idea. 
If I tell you, for instance, that I have seen the 
North Pole you are no more enlightened than if 
I told you I had seen Heaven. 

Playgoer 


True. 


230 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Whereas if I tell you I have seen a church-steeple 
you have something familiar to go upon from 
which you can construct an actuality. The North 
Pole, or an idea, is something to which I cannot 
take you without considerable exertion on your part 
as well as my own; but I can convey an idea to 
you or a proof that the North Pole exists at a 
certain spot on the globe. But, as we agreed, it 
must be brought to you with great care. For 
instance, my proof of the existence of the North 
Pole must be made quite clear to you, and though 
this will give you no exertion whatever, it will 
give me exactly double as much as if you had gone 
with me to search for those proofs. 

Playgoer 

How is that ? 


Stage-director 

You will remember that we agreed that the mere 
telling you I have seen the North Pole is not suffi¬ 
cient proof that I speak the truth, whereas the mere 
telling you that I have seen a church-steeple is 
enough . 1 Now, what would be enough to prove 
to you I had seen the North Pole ? 

1 To demand proof of all things great and small is always the 
sign of the little mind. But to demand proof of great things 
only and to accept the little is a sign of the smallest intellect. 
If demonstration is at all valuable it is entirely valuable. Is 
proof valueless ? The question has never been answered. 

231 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

You would have to prove before a group of 
experts and scientists by means of certain obser¬ 
vations, etc. 

Stage-director 

Would that prove the truth of my statement ? 

Playgoer 

I suppose so; it is the test they go upon. 

Stage-director 

And you, could I not prove it to you ? 

Playgoer 

Well, no; you see I should not be able to under¬ 
stand you; my only chance of being in sympathy 
with your tale would be to trust in the experts 
before whom you had laid your proofs. 

Stage-director 

But would my tale have any interest for you ? 
could you have sympathy with what you could 
not understand ? 

Playgoer 

Oh yes; yet it seems strange on thinking about 
it. 

Stage-director 

Not so strange, and yet stranger than you 
suppose. The strangest part of it all is that man 
should be so lacking in natural instinct and moral 
232 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


courage. If we had preserved both, we would not 
ask for those actual proofs and we would believe 
and understand great truths the more easily. 
Anyhow, it is amusing as it is. Where we do not 
understand or believe, we become the children of 
those who can both believe and understand—that 
is as it should be, being as it is. 

Playgoer 

May I ask you- 

Stage-director 

But come, let us get on. To believe in the idea 
which I bring you (this North Pole idea) you will 
rely upon the judgment of the wise men before 
whom I lay the proofs. 

Those proofs are our little difficulty. In order 
to take observations and soundings, in order to 
bring back minerals, certain birds, plants, and 
such-like things which will prove my story I shall 
have to be very careful, very well equipped and 
well assisted. To travel into the unknown is to 
court disaster, and few set out without carefully 
organizing their equipment. Therefore ship, crew, 
instruments, all these things are selected only after 
the most cautious consideration. Neither too 
much nor too little of anything must be taken. 
On such a journey through an unknown land, 
and one in which so-called natural conditions so 
powerfully play the part of enemy, where Nature 
seems to defy one to pluck out the heart of her 
233 




oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


mystery, everything must be done to anticipate 
all emergencies. 

Even when we have prepared everything with 
the greatest care accidents will still threaten the 
safety of our expedition. 

We shall need enough of everything and not too 
much; therefore it is not a matter of money— 
although enough money is certainly necessary. 

Playgoer 

But what has this to do with the Theatre ? 

# 

Stage-director 

Patience for a little and you will see. 

We make these provisions after we have made our 
plan. That is the most difficult part of the work, 
for once made we must follow it to the end, while 
at the same time seizing the fresh opportunities as 
they present themselves. 

Now that we are ready to start, consider for one 
instant what it is we are setting out to do. We 
are about to make a dangerous and very difficult 
expedition into the unknown to bring you back a 
few visible proofs of the known. We are not to 
bring back the idea itself, but only its fringe; for 
to return from the unknown with the idea itself 
would certainly make you think we were mad, 
whereas to bring back hints of the idea satisfies 
you as to our sanity. 


234 



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Playgoer 

What a strange paradox ! 

Stage-director 

Well, let us accept it; you want the pretty little 
fringe; you shall have it, although it is that fringe 
that costs so much to obtain which presents the 
whole difficulty. And now for the Theatre. But 
first a request. 

Playgoer 

What is it ? 

Stage-director 

You asked me not to speak any more about 
temples or about the Art of the Theatre which I 
once told you was lost; which a beautiful poet 
well described to me as having “ lain hid under the 
roots of the Pyramids for two thousand years, so 
solemn it is.” Give me leave to speak again of 
this. 

Playgoer 

Will you speak to some practical purpose ? 

Stage-director 

Only so. 

Playgoer 

You will not merely tell me what this art once 
meant to us, and what it should mean again, but 
you will show me a practical way of bringing it to 
us once more ? 


235 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

That is my intention. 

Playgoer 

You will not propose to destroy all the present 
theatres of the world in order to do this, for then 
I should not listen to you, for it would be no longer 
a practical proposition. 

Stage-director 

No, I will not do so. IIow delighted I am to 
hear you express the wish that the present theatres 
shall in no way be injured ! It shows me that 
your interest in them is reviving and that I have 
already nearly cured you. Remember, the Gaiety, 
8 o’clock ! 

Playgoer 

I have not forgotten. But now your practical 
plan ? 

Stage-director 

My proposal is to discover or rediscover the lost 
Art of the Theatre by a practical expedition, 
carried out swiftly and without unnecessary ex¬ 
pense, into the realms where it lies hidden. 

Playgoer 

A good intention. And your method ? 

Stage-director 

The very simplest. It is based upon the methods 
236 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE 


employed by Arctic explorers. The discovery of 
this art is the exact counterpart of the discovery 
of the North Pole. 

Both are situated in the same position, in the 
unknown. We possess clues as to the whereabouts 
of both; both are shrouded in much mystery, both 
realms are themselves, by all reports, the very home 
of mystery and beauty. 

In preparing for our first expedition (for we 
expect to make several) we shall follow the method 
employed by Nansen. First we shall take time— 
we shall take three or four years to make our 
preparations, and the scheme itself has already 
been in preparation for over six years. 

So it was with Nansen’s project. 

Let me read you an extract from his Farthest 
North , which I have just been reading, relating to 
the plans and preparations for his expedition in 
1893 : 

“ If we turn our attention to the long list of 
former expeditions and to their equipments, it 
cannot but strike us that scarcely a single vessel 
has been built specially for the purpose—in fact, 
the majority of explorers have not even provided 
themselves with vessels which were originally in¬ 
tended for ice navigation. 

“ This is the more surprising when we remember 
the sums of money that have been lavished on the 
equipment of some of these expeditions. The fact 
is they have generally been in such a hurry to set 

’ 237 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


out that there has been no time to devote to a more 
careful equipment. In many cases, indeed, pre¬ 
parations were not begun until a few months before 
the expedition sailed. The present expedition, 
however, could not be equipped in so short a time, 
and if the voyage itself took three years the pre¬ 
parations took no less time, while the scheme was 
conceived thrice three years earlier. 

“ Plan after plan did Archer make of the pro¬ 
jected ship; one model after another was prepared 
and abandoned. 

“ Fresh improvements were constantly being 
suggested. The form we finally adhered to may 
seem to many people by no means beautiful, but 
that it is well adapted to the ends in view I think 
our expedition has fully proved.” 

Here you see what long and careful preparation 
was made before the setting out of the expedition. 

Playgoer 

Yes, and also much money was needed, as I 
suppose it will be for your scheme ? 

Stage-director 

Certainly we shall need support, financial as well 
as moral, and we shall get it. 

Playgoer 

How do you know this ? 

238 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

Patience a little; I shall come to the matter of 
expense in due time. When we have our scheme 
well supported—and £5000 a year guaranteed for 
five years will be all we shall require—we shall put 
the following plan into action. 

We shall build and equip a college, furnishing 
it with what is necessary. 

It will have to contain two theatres, one open- 
air and one roofed-in. These two stages, closed 
and open, are necessary for our experiments, and 
on one or on the other, sometimes on both, every 
theory shall be tested and records made of the 
results. 

These records will be written, drawn, photo¬ 
graphed or registered on the cinematograph or 
gramophone for future reference, but they will 
not be made public and will be only for the use of 
members of the college. 

Other instruments for the study of natural 
sound and light will be purchased, together with 
the instruments for producing these artificially, 
and will lead us to the better knowledge of both 
sound and light, and also to the invention of yet 
better instruments through which the purer beauty 
of both sound and light may be passed. 

In addition, instruments will be purchased for 
the study of motion, and some will be especially 
invented for this purpose. 

To this equipment we shall add a printing-press, 
239 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE 


all kinds of carpenters’ tools, a well-stocked library, 
and all things pertaining to modern theatres. 
With these materials and instruments we shall 
pursue the study of the Stage as it is to-day with 
the intention of finding out those weaknesses 
which have brought it to its present unfortunate 
condition. We shall, in short, experiment upon 
the body of the modern theatre in our roofed-in 
theatre (for you will remember we have two), 
exactly in the same way as surgeons and their 
pupils experiment upon the bodies of dead men and 
animals. 

In selecting its method of administration the 
college will follow the ancient precedent of Nature. 
It will consist of a head, a body and its members, 
the leader being selected by election. Those who 
are to compose the executive body are less difficult to 
decide on, as their task is undoubtedly less difficult. 

In all there will not be more than thirty men in 
the college. There will be no women. 

So now, are you clear as to these two points ? 
First, that we shall have a college of experiment 
in which to study the three natural sources of art— 
Sound, Light and Motion—or, as I have spoken of 
them elsewhere, voice, scene and action. 

Secondly, that we shall number in all thirty 
working-men, who shall singly and together pursue 
the study of the three subjects named and the 
other experiments to test the principles of the 
modern theatre. Is that clear to you ? 

240 



oTRE SECOND DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

It is. But how does your actual work resemble 
that of an Arctic explorer ? 

Stage-director 

In this way. We shall have to select a centre 
from which search-parties shall be sent in different 
directions, our object being to explore within 
reason any part of the theatrical world which is 
unknown to us. We shall at the same time go 
over much old ground in the belief that it has never 
been thoroughly examined. No great hopes are 
entertained of finding there anything of great value, 
but an examination is necessary. As soon as pos¬ 
sible we shall push forward in the direction of the 
unknown. Just as search-parties are sent in a 
certain direction with instructions to sound and 
make observations and then to return to the point 
selected as a base, so will our investigators push for¬ 
ward their studies into certain regions from which, 
when they have fully explored them and collected 
sufficient evidence, they will return to the point 
where they had separated from us to make known 
the result of their observations. 

If this work proceed as rapidly as we hope, we shall 
advance to a new position at which to establish 
our base within the first year. On the other hand, 
it may prove to be more difficult, in which case we 
shall have to stay where we are. 
r 241 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUEo 


Above all I wish to emphasize this point: that 
no change of base shall ever be made until every¬ 
one is fully assured of the practicality of the next 
position. 

You will understand that our reason for pushing 
forward our base is to facilitate communication in 
the event of our search-parties pushing far into the 
unknown. By this method, and with sufficient 
supplies, we can make attempt on attempt to 
compass our end. It is the only method which 
suggests itself to me, and I cannot think of a 
more practical one, for you must remember that 
acting on such a plan guarantees continual suc¬ 
cess of one kind or another. Call to mind how 
many important observations and records were 
made, not only by those who went farthest 
north, but by those who searched even in those 
latitudes into which many men had travelled 
before. 

At the end of a year our books will hold the 
records of things hitherto undiscovered, dates and 
results of experiments of incalculable value—not 
only to us in our future efforts, but to those who 
shall resume the search when we may be obliged 
to abandon it. 


Playgoer 

Then you think it likely your efforts will not 
meet with all the success you could desire ? 

242 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Stage-director 

On the contrary—I think we can be sure of ex¬ 
ceptional success; as to any final success, it is a 
rare thing to achieve, for finality is something 
which probably does not exist. Now tell me, does 
my plan and its method of execution appeal to 
you ? 

Playgoer 

Let me try to say what I think. The plan is an 
ideal one, and, as your quest is ideal, is in harmony 
with that for which you search. But will you find 
support ? Will you, to begin with, find the sup¬ 
port of the leaders of the Theatrical Profession ? 

Stage-director 

Whom do you mean ? 

Playgoer 

Well, to be outspoken, Sir Herbert Tree, Sir 
Charles Wyndham, Arthur Bourchier, Weedon 
Grossmith, Cyril Maude- 

Stage-director 

The actor-managers, you mean ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, but I had not finished my list of names, 
which includes not only all those connected with 
the arts in England and even some of those con- 
r 2 243 



oTKE SECOND DIALOGUE & 


nected with the State, but also certain names of 
artists abroad. For instance, will the Theatre in 
Europe support you—the French theatre, either 
the Comedie Fran^aise or one of the smaller re¬ 
presentative theatres such as those directed by 
Bernhardt or Antoine ? Will the German theatre 
give you any support? The State theatres, or 
Reinhardt, for instance, or the Munchen Art 
Theatre ? Holland—what can Holland do ? and 
Sweden, Russia or Italy ? The Constan Art Thea¬ 
tre about which you have told me, or Eleonora 
Duse, about whose ideals I have heard so much ? 
And then the Americans ? You see, I want to 
know on whom you rely for support, for that is the 
first requisite to make your scheme practical. 

Stage-director 

You have put me an easy question to answer. 
You have mentioned some of the best-known names 
in the theatrical world. If the proposed college is 
opposed to all their interests they will not support 
it. But consider whether this is the case. For 
instance, amongst those you have named are 
possibly a few men of decidedly ideal tendencies. 
The directors of the Constan Art Theatre are un¬ 
doubtedly such men. I think we have their support. 
Madame Duse ? I think she would never refuse 
hers. Then there is Reinhardt of Berlin. Such a 
scheme is one which is certainly not opposed to 
his interests. And that Sir Herbert Beerbohm- 
244 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Tree’s name will be found in such company is far 
more likely than that he should join issue with 
those weary gentlemen whose love of adventure 
has left them. Madame Bernhardt and Antoine 
are more than likely to applaud our proposals and 
to guarantee them as practical if they read and 
understand them. 


Playgoer 

And will these do no more than give you their 
moral support ? 


Stage-director 

Why, what else can they give ? They are hard 
workers in a very different profession, and already 
their reputation for generosity has been too often 
imposed upon. If they will give us their hands 
and bid us God-speed it is all we should ever 
dream of asking for. 


Playgoer 

Well, but your capital—where is that coming 
from ? A bundle of God-speeds are pretty, but no 
practical use can be made of them. 

Stage-director 

You may be right, though everything is not 
valued by making a practical use of it. We 
shall expect to receive practical support from the 
State. 


245 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

Your confidence inspires me to believe you are 
right. But there are two things which you will 
have to prove to the State before it will accord you 
its support. 


Stage-director 
What are they ? 


Playgoer 

First, you will have to show clearly that the 
State would benefit; secondly, that the advantage 
would exceed the cost. 

Stage-director 

Very well, then, let us first consider how the 
State would benefit. 

The Theatre affects the people in two different 
ways. It either instructs or it amuses. There 
are many ways to instruct and to amuse. Now, 
which would you say was the more instructive, 
something heard or something seen ? 

Playgoer 

I would say the latter. 

Stage-director 

And which would you say was easier of com¬ 
prehension, the beautiful or the ugly, the noble or 
the mean ? 


246 



o THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

If we seek for instruction it is easier to com¬ 
prehend the beautiful and the noble, for it is 
that which we are searching for; if we seek for 
amusement the ignoble and ugly is possibly more 
immediate in its effect. 

Stage-director 

And is the beautiful and the noble more amusing ? 

Playgoer 

I think it is not. 

Stage-director 

And yet what is that which, when you see and 
hear it, causes you to feel smilingly from top to 
toe ? 

Playgoer 

The beautiful—truth—oh, something which it is 
quite beyond us to explain. 

Stage-director 

I think so too. Yet is there not something of 
amusement in it? for we smile; and a smile is the 
whisper of laughter. 

Playgoer 

You are right. 

Stage-director 

Perhaps we may call it the very best part of 
amusement ? 


247 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

We may for the sake of argument. 

Stage-director 

And this is connected, as we have seen, with the 
beautiful and the noble; therefore the very best 
part of amusement is akin to the best part of 
instruction. 

Playgoer 

It seems so. 

Stage-director 

Now, we have said that the Theatre either 
instructs or amuses. Yet we see that sometimes 
it acts in both ways; in short, it both instructs 
and amuses when it is noblest and most beautiful. 

Playgoer 

True. 

Stage-director 

Would you say that this feeling, which for want 
of the right word I have called “ smiling from top 
to toe,” is a good or a bad feeling ? 

Playgoer 

I should say it was the very best feeling. 

Stage-director 

In fact, if you saw hundreds of faces in a gather¬ 
ing of people wreathed in smiles, you would say 
that they felt happier than if you saw those faces 
strained and weary-looking ? 

248 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

Why, certainly I should. 

Stage-director 

And tell me, if you were a king, would you 
rather see happy faces such as I have described 
or gloomy ones ? 

Playgoer 

Happy ones, of course. 

Stage-director 

Another question : Would you prefer to see them 
smiling or thoughtful ? 

Playgoer 

Smiling or thoughtful ? The thoughtful face is 
not necessarily the gloomy face,—and yet I would 
prefer that they smiled. 

Stage-director 

Why would you prefer it ? 

Playgoer 

Because then I too should feel like smiling. 

Stage-director 

A good answer. Now you told me just now 
that something seen instructs us more than some¬ 
thing heard. May I take it that you mean that 
what we see is more swiftly and more easily 
comprehended ? 


249 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

Yes, that is what I mean. 

Stage-director 

Let us take an example. We see a finely bred 
horse let loose in a field. He gambols, arches his 
neck, looks around splendidly with his eye. If we 
had never seen a horse before, no description would 
convey the right impression to us so swiftly as does 
this seeing him. 

Playgoer 

Yes, that is very true. 

Stage-director 

And would a verbal description of the horse 
delivered at the same time as it became visible to 
us assist us to understand better what we see ? 

Playgoer 

No, I think it might confuse us, for we should 
be so much occupied in gazing at the creature. 

Stage-director 

Then you would not be prepared to hear any¬ 
thing about it in addition to seeing it ? 

Playgoer 

No, it would rather irritate than assist. 

Stage-director 

And yet they say that instruction is obtained 
250 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


through the sense of hearing as well as through 
that of sight. 

Playgoer 

Yes, but the two impressions are likely to con¬ 
found each other if they come to us simultaneously. 

Stage-director 

Well, then, let us put it differently. Suppose 
the horse in his gambols before us should give 
expression to his joy and pride by neighing—what 
then ? 

Playgoer 

Ah, that’s true! That would assist us to compre¬ 
hend; our senses would be delighted. 

Stage-director 

The neigh of a horse, then, is more illuminating 
than a learned discourse ? Would you smile on 
hearing it ? 

Playgoer 

Yes, it is very likely. 

Stage-director 

You would say then that you had been perfectly 
instructed, for you had seen something noble and 
you had heard some playful expression proceeding 
from that which seemed so noble, and you would 
smile through your understanding. You would not 
become thoughtful, would you ? 

251 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


Playgoer 

No, no; I should be enchanted. 

Stage-director 

You would; and that is precisely the state of 
mind you achieve in a theatre such as I mentioned, 
where instruction and amusement spring from the 
contemplation by eye and ear of the beautiful. 
You w r ould be enchanted. A poorer state of mind 
would be the result should instruction without 
amusement be offered you; you would be merely 
instructed. And a much poorer state of mind 
would result if you received amusement without 
instruction. 

You will bear in mind that I have all along 
spoken of true amusement in a high sense and true 
instruction in the same sense; that is to say, I have 
spoken of them as two things which it is possible 
and desirable to connect, and therefore have in¬ 
dicated that they are very much alike and indeed 
hardly divisible. 

Playgoer 

Yet they are separated, for the music-hall echoes 
with shrieks and howls of the loudest laughter, 
and the faces of the audience at the Lyceum are 
very much drawn during the performance of King 
Lear or Hamlet . 


Stage-director 

Yes, that is precisely what I am wanting to talk 
252 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


about. The division is much too great, especially 
in England, for in a music hall in Germany we hear 
far fewer bursts of rough laughter, and the faces 
at the tragedies are less strained and more thought¬ 
ful. A perfect theatre would neither tighten nor 
loosen the muscles of the face, and would neither 
contract the cells of the brain nor the heart-strings. 
All would be set at ease; and to produce this state 
of mental and physical ease in the people is the 
duty of the Theatre and its Art. 

Playgoer 

But a perfect theatre is impossible. 

Stage-director 

What do I hear ? What is it you say ? I think 
we are in England—no ? I think you are an 
Englishman—am I right ? and I think you will 
withdraw that last remark of yours at once. 

Playgoer 

You look so like that horse you were describing 
that I do so to avoid your heels ! 

Stage-director 

Bravo ! And now that it is agreed that it is 
possible to create a perfect theatre here in England 
let us see how we may do so. You say we must 
prove that the State will be benefited before we 
can hope for its support. Well, it is the most 
perfect theatre in the world that we shall offer to 
253 




oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE 


the State, and is not that a benefit ? This theatre 
will be created after some years of toil 1 by following 
the method of search which I have sketched out 
for you. 

Playgoer 

But you have not shown me that the cost of 
this “ expedition ” will be less than the advantage 
to the State, which will only be benefited if the 
gain exceeds the expense. 

Stage-director 

I will do so in as few words as possible; though, 
in a short conversation, I cannot bring all the 
proof to bear upon this and other points that I 
could do if the matter should be taken up for more 
serious inquiry by a committee appointed for the 
purpose. 

The expenses of our first five years would be, 
as I said before, £25,000. Now, £25,000 possibly 
seems to you a great deal of money. Let us see, 
however, what it really represents. 

It represents F. Nansen’s expenses for his Polar 
Expedition, 1893-96. 

It represents the cost of one picture in the 
National Gallery. 

It represents the cost of about three to five 

1 The Constan Art Theatre, the most perfectly organized and 
conducted theatre in Europe, has taken ten years to achieve its 
present perfection, and only in the tenth year did it commence 
to return a dividend. 


254 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


productions at His Majesty’s Theatre or Drury 
Lane. 

It represents about the cost of a single Pageant 
in England, 1908. 

It represents one quarter of Sarah Bernhardt’s 
profits for her tour in France, 1880-81. 

It represents the average takings of a hundred 
London theatres for one night. 

It represents about a third of the sum paid for 
a single “ Triumph ” in 1634. 1 

It represents less than half the sum spent on 
enlarging and improving the Lyceum Theatre in 
1881. 

It represents a fifth of the profits of one single 
Irving tour in America . 2 

Now tell me, do you think £25,000 a large sum 
to pay for the expenses of so important a work 
covering five years ? 

Playgoer 

I do not think so now after what you have told 
me. 

Stage-director 

Now consider, also, how much the public has 
to pay for the many theatrical experiments made 
every year. You may say that nearly every pro¬ 
duction in London and the provinces is to-day an 

1 (< The Triumph of Peace.” See Symonds : Shakespeare's Pre ¬ 
decessors , p. 27. 

2 Brereton : Life of Irving , p. 312. 

255 



T H E SECOND DIALOGUE o 


experiment —an honest if incomplete and method¬ 
less experiment—towards bettering the craft of 
stage work. The public is led to believe that these 
experiments are finished works of art, whereas 
they are not works of art at all, but just honestly 
intended, though shockingly perpetrated, blunders. 

Now would it not be cheaper for the public if 
some one—the State, a millionaire, or even the 
public itself—should pay such a small sum as I 
have indicated, £25,000, to cover the expenses of 
five years’ serious and practical experiment by 
picked men, rather than to continue for ever to part 
yearly with the sum of £2,500,000 (two millions and 
a half sterling), as it is doing to-day, for experiments 
made in a hurry and without method ? 

Playgoer 

Does the public part with so great a sum yearly ? 

Stage-director 

Let us see if I am correct. Let us say that 
there are one hundred theatres in England. 1 Let 
us say each of the hundred takes £250 a night 
from the public, 2 and let us say they take this for 
one hundred nights as representing a year. 3 

We place the whole calculation as low as possible, 
and it still reaches a colossal total of two millions 
and a half sterling , taken from the public in the 

1 There are more than six times that number. 

2 The Lyceum in 1881 could hold £328 in one evening. 

3 Theatres remain open for over two hundred nights in a year. 

256 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


course of one year for rubbish. Have I answered 
your second question, then? 

Playgoer 

Hardly. I asked you if the advantage to be 
derived by the State would exceed the cost. You 
have only shown me that the cost is exceedingly 
low in comparison with other State and private 
expenditures, but you have yet to show me that 
the State will reap its £25,000 worth of advantages. 

Stage-director 

Let us look into that at once. The State will 
receive from the college at the end of five years 
the results of their labours. These will include: 
(1) A practical demonstration of the best method 
to be employed for building and directing a national 
theatre as an ideal theatre, and in a manner 
hitherto deemed impossible. (2) The improve¬ 
ment by simplification of many of the mechanical 
appliances of the modern stage. (3) The training 
of stage-managers and of the staff employed to 
shift the scenery. (4) The training of actors to 
speak and to move—the chief difficulties of the 
average actor. (5) The training of a group of 
original scene-painters, a group of perfectly drilled 
men to execute any given order regarding the lights 
on the Stage, for at present, as any visit to a special 
light rehearsal will show, the lighting staff in a 
theatre is always at sea. 
s 257 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


There are three main reasons for this; the first is 
that a stage-director does not know what he wants, 
does not know the names or uses of the machines 
employed or of their parts or what these machines 
are capable of, and is utterly ignorant of how to 
obtain a result. He leaves it all to accident and 
chance “ effect.” The second reason is that the 
majority of men who work the machines at evening 
performances are employed on different work by 
day, and have received but the barest training as to 
their duties. The third reason is that the machines 
are designed without knowledge of the use to which 
they should serve. Still, it must be admitted that 
the electricians have many unnecessary difficulties 
to contend with, which would be removed if the 
whole craft of the modem stage were to be studied 
afresh with a view to readjusting its component 
parts. There is only one man to whom we look 
for this—the stage-manager; but his opportunities 
of study are few, for his time is occupied in having 
to attend to and straighten out awkward situations, 
created too often by the director of the theatre 
and by the actors, actresses and supers. If he 
attempts to improve things every one loses their 
heads. When the stage-manager can have time 
to train, and can afterwards be given authority 
and opportunity to train his staff, theatres will 
take a small step in the right direction. A college 
is the only place where such training can be re¬ 
ceived and given. 


258 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


In short, what we should tender to the State 
in return for its support, would be the nucleus of 
an Ideal Theatre on a practical basis, with a college 
for the subsequent training of the staff from stage- 
manager to electricians, raising all to an ideal 
standard which should not be lowered under any 
excuse whatever. 

You see then that the college, with its eyes fixed 
on the future and its ideal firmly established, 
would keep its hands and fingers busy with the 
present. The search for the lost Art of the Theatre 
must be made only after passing through the regions 
in which the modern theatre is situated. In 
passing we shall re-establish its order; do you 
understand ? 

Playgoer 

I think you have made it clear. And now, one 
more question. Are you to act as the head of this 
college ? 

Stage-director 

No. The head, or leader, as I tell you, will be 
elected by the members. 

Playgoer 

And will you not enter for election ? What 
will the college be without you ? 

Stage-director 

Everything. With me, nothing, 
s 2 259 



TEE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

What do you mean ? Will you desert the very 
scheme you have created ? 

Stage-director 

No; I shall never be absent from the college, but 
I shall not act as either head, body or member. 

Playgoer 

What will you do, then ? 

Stage-director 

I shall give it its existence, and shall then ask 
to be permitted free entrance to the college, so as 
to study there whenever I wish to. And my reasons 
for desiring this are many. To explain them to 
you fully would take many years. But you may 
take it that they are not lazy reasons. I should 
feel honoured to be a member of such a college. 

Playgoer 

But you will give i* more than this—you will 
yourself make experiments and lend your gifts to 
the work ? 

Stage-director 

My gifts are few and cannot be lent. I would 
willingly make experiments if asked to do so, but 
I believe I can be of more use to this college at a 
little distance than connected with it. 

260 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

And this is how you would propose to discover 
this lost art, which you, probably, more than any 
one else, know most about ? 

Stage-director 

I know very little about it, but possibly I know 
where it is situated better than the others. I can 
point to the right direction, and for this reason 
I believe I am not altogether valueless to the efforts 
of the college. In their search, their experiments, 
I shall be ever with them, but I shall not lead them, 
nor must I be expected to follow them. When¬ 
ever called upon I shall be at their service, but not 
for any fixed occupation. 

Playgoer 

Well, you somewhat take my breath away. You 
prove to me that you know as much or more than 
the rest of the world about this Third Art, as you 
have called it, and you talk about it to me for 
hours; you give up everything in your life for it 
and you propose to plan out the college up to a 
certain point—and then you hand over your 
college, idea, plan, to some one else. Have you no 
fear that the whole thing will become much changed 
when it leaves your hands ? 

Stage-director 

It will certainly change—its existence depends 
upon this fact; but I have no fear because of that. 

261 



oTHE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

But have you no personal desires in relation to 
this college ? Will you not be a little pained to 
see it moving in a wrong direction ? 

Stage-director 

It will not do so. The magnet of the ideal is 
fixed; attraction has already commenced; it is in 
resisting this that we shall make our discoveries. 
There will be men with us who will from time 
to time become depressed and tired, and then 
mistakes are likely to occur—and with the mis¬ 
takes discoveries. But the mistakes will never be 
wilfully made from some selfish motive, and can 
but be the result of too great a strain. But these 
resistances, as I said, will only lead us towards our 
ideal. 

Playgoer 

But the modern theatre which you profess to 
despise resists the attraction of the ideal. 

Stage-director 

Ah! that is quite different. They resist through 
fear; we shall resist through courage. We shall hear 
the call and feel the pull, and we shall go straight 
onwards, but with slow deliberation, making dis¬ 
coveries all along the way. We shall finally 
discover what we look for and what attracts us, 
and then- 


262 




“ HUNGER.” A Drama 
The Prologue. 

I once wrote, or rather constructed, a Drama called “ Hunger ,” 
making for it many designs. I hope to complete this Drama when 
I have my school and workmen to help me. For to finish a thing for 
the stage in the study is a mistake I ought not to he guilty of. 

And then I hope to give performances of it before a small and 
select audience. 

Not that I believe the theatre is for the “few”—but there are 
some plays and some shows which are not for “ the many.” Nothing 
would make me alter or destroy this Drama—but nothing would 
persuade me that it would be right to show it to a large and mixed 
audience. 

For it is wrong for the poor and hungry to be shown a vision of 
themselves and their misery—but it is not entirely wrong to show it 
to a few people who might, if they once saw, do something to make 
Hunger less general. 

No amount of preaching in a theatre is of any more use to 
humanity than preaching in the streets. For words never explain. 
But to see a thing, and how sad some things are and how tei'rible 
other things are, is quite a different matter. Argument is silenced . 
In my Drama the Hunger of the Poor and the Hunger of the Rich 
were placed side by side. And the king or man of God stood apart — 
and no one could tell us what he felt—As it always was and always 
will be. 


<£> THE SECOND DI A LO 



But have 


fch 


Flaygoer 

amahCI A "JI30XTJH “ : ton 

little ptiined 


1 1 AobSosT atHT 

n baiioo iwn©t(I © ,©&jairti»no6 tartibt to ,aiovm aono \ 
naAm onvotG aiAi aiaiqmoa oi aqoA \ .amgmb pwtv ii to\ $niA©m 
to\ \jmAi © Aain j\. oi toH .am <\iaA 6i namAto'tf bn© iooAaa \rm atoA \ 
.\o v$l\iwy> ad oi iosv iAjjwo \ aAoiaira © ai \jbnia oAi ni ay>©ia ©A* 
bn© ib>ma © ato\ad ii \o aaon©mto\taq aoi^ oi aooA \ naAi bnK 

.amtoib©© ioaiaa 

at© at&Ai bid—-oia^ aAi t©\ ai fct&oaAi aAi ataiiad \ i©Ai ioV. 

r ’’.igstbjw t©\4©n at© AbiA^ vwoAs amoa ©ft© ant©a 
binom ^niAion i©A—©^©t(i ,aiAi yyotiaab to tai^ am aAont bloom 
baxim W \ 

.S^Aaibiro 

\o noiaVt © owdfla ad oV yn^iwA W*> tooq aAi toy. $©otm aiii to*^ 
ii <wojda oi s^ootm \jfettiifts ion oi ii. iwd—tiaAi bn© aaaiamaAi 
aAow oi tyVsibmvo'f ©b t p©a aauo yraAi \i (iA^isft ©An aicjoa^ ma\>© oi 

.Jotanaj aaai ta^nwii 

oi aaw atom \jni> \o & atioaAi © ni ^vtiAaoati^ \o ircnom© o T A * 
.nfoScjsft taosn abtom to r ^ .aiaatia aAi ni \>niAa©atq n©Ai ^iiwomwA 
aWbnai m©A bn© at© aymiAi amoa boa moA bn© <%niAi © 99 a oi in 8. 
.baonaiia ai inawnynA .taiiom inata^ib © aiin$ ai ,at© aymiAi taAio 
AaiSl aAi \o ta^myR aAi bn© too^ aAi \o ta^nwW aAi ©motd \u« n\ 
—btoq© booia boO \o &m to yjniA aAi bn A .abia \$d abia baooiq atom 
ays ©mi© bn© a ©m atomic ii a A—iia\ aA i©Am an iiai bbioa ano on bn© 

Ma ” 

h I that is quite diffcfcut» They resist iifoui’ 
.: J ; wc hall resist through cou ge. We shall he 
the call and fee! the pull, and we shall g.- atra; b h 
onwards, hut with slow deiiberat 




i j 


ic wav 


we look for 


ion, ma 
Ve sha 
irhafc ati 





tti'i s 


m 
























^>TRE SECOND DIALOGUE o 


Playgoer 

What then ? 

Stage-director 

A question. And for my part I am thoroughly 
convinced that there will never be an end to our 
journey. Attraction shall never cease for us; 
that will never change, we shall ever be invited, 
beckoned, impelled to move forward. 

1910. 


263 



ON THE GHOSTS IN THE 
TEAGEDIES OF SHAKE¬ 
SPEARE a a a 

A VERY curious indication as to the way in which 
the producer should treat the Shakespearean 
tragedies on the stage lies in the appearance in 
those tragedies of the ghosts or spirits. 

The fact of their presence precludes a realistic 
treatment of the tragedies in which they appear. 
Shakespeare has made them the centre of his vast 
dreams, and the central point of a dream, as of a 
circular geometrical figure, controls and conditions 
every hair’s breadth of the circumference. 

These spirits set the key to which, as in music, 
every note of the composition must be harmonized; 
they are integral, not extraneous parts of the drama; 
they are the visualized symbols of the supernatural 
world which enfolds the natural, exerting in the action 
something of that influence which in “ the science 
of sound ” is exerted by those “ partial tones, 
which are unheard, but which blend with the tones 
which are heard and make all the difference 
between the poorest instrument and the supreme 
note of a violin ”; for, as with these, “so in the 
science of life, in the crowded street or market place 
or theatre, or wherever life is, there are partial 
tones, there are unseen presences. Side by side 
with the human crowd is a crowd of unseen forms. 
264 



‘PARTIAL TONES ’ 


Principalities and Powers and Possibilities. . . . 
These are unseen but not unfelt. They enter into 
the houses of the human beings that are seen, and 
for their coming some of them are swept and 
garnished, and they abide there, and the last state 
of these human beings is radiant with a divine 
light and resonant with an added love; or, on the 
contrary, it may be that, haunted by spirits more 
wicked than themselves, the last state of such beings 
is worse than before : subject to a violence and 
tyranny abhorrent even to themselves; impalpable 
and inevitable as it would seem, even to the 
confines of despair.” 1 

It is by the necromancy of these “ partial tones,” 
by the introduction of influences felt even when 
unseen, at times impalpable as the “ shadow of 
a shadow,” yet realized even then as dominant 
forces, sometimes malefic, sometimes beneficent, 
that Shakespeare achieves results which surpass 
those of his contemporaries even when, like 
Middleton in his Witch, they treat of similar 
themes. 

For when Shakespeare wrote, “ enter the ghost 
of Banquo,” he did not have in his mind merely a 
player clothed in a piece of gauze. Nor had he 
done so, had he been preoccupied with gauze and 
limelight, would he ever have created the Ghost in 
Hamlet ; for that ghost of Hamlet’s father, who 
moves aside the veils at the beginning of the great 

1 Shorthouse. 

265 



SHAKESPEARE AS SCENOGRAPHER 


play, is not a joke; he is not a theatrical gentleman 
in armour, is not a farce of a figure. He is a 
momentary visualization of the unseen forces which 
dominate the action and is a clear command from 
Shakespeare that the men of the theatre shall rouse 
their imagination and let their reasonable logic 
slumber. 

For the appearances of all these spirits in the 
plays are not the inventions of a pantomime 
manager; they are the loftiest achievements of a 
lofty poet, and carry to us the clearest statements 
we can ever receive as to Shakespeare’s thoughts 
about the stage. 

“ The suggestive shall predominate, for all 
pictures on the stage pretending to illusionize 
reality must necessarily fail in their effect or cause 
a disillusionment. Shakespeare’s dramas are 
poetic creations and must be presented and treated 
as such; ” 1 advice which should be especially 
borne in mind by all who set themselves to inter¬ 
pret those of the plays in which the supernatural 
element is introduced. 

Thus if a man of the theatre shall produce Mac¬ 
beth , Hamlet , Richard the Third , Julius Ccesar , 
Antony and Cleopatra, The Tempest , or A Mid¬ 
summer Night's Dream as they should be produced, 
he must first of all woo the spirits in those plays; 
for unless he understand them with his whole being 
he shall but produce a thing of rags and tatters. 

1 Hevesi. 

266 



SHAKESPEARE AS SCENOGRAPHER 


The moment, however, that he is at one with these 
spirits, the moment he has seen their proportion 
and moved to their rhythm, in that moment is he a 
master ol the art of producing a play by Shake¬ 
speare. But this the stage-manager never seems to 
realize, for did he do so he would adopt a very 
different method for the interpretation of those 
scenes in which the ghosts appear. 

For what is it makes the ghosts of Shakespeare, 
which are so significant and impressive when we 
read the plays, appear so weak and unconvincing 
on the stage ? It is because in the latter case the 
tap is turned on suddenly, the right atmosphere 
has not been prepared. 

Enter a ghost—sudden panic of all the actors, 
of all the limelights, of all the music and of the 
entire audience. Exit the ghost—intense relief 
of the whole theatre. In fact, with the exit of the 
ghost on the stage the audience may be said to feel 
that something best not spoken about has been 
passed over. And so the mighty question, which 
is at the roots of the whole world, of life and death, 
that fine theme ever productive of so much beauty 
and from which Shakespeare weaves his veils, is 
slurred over, avoided as with an apologetic cough. 

We are children in such matters. We think a 
bogie will do. We giggle when we are asked to 
present the idea of something spiritual, for we know 
nothing of spirits, disbelieving in them. We giggle 
like children and wrap ourselves in a table-cloth 
267 



THE SUPERNATURAL ELEMENT 


and say “Wow, wow, wow.” Yet consider such 
plays as Hamlet , Macbeth, Richard the Third . What 
is it gives them their supreme mystery and terror, 
which raises them above mere tragedies of ambition, 
murder, madness and defeat ? Is it not just that 
supernatural element which dominates the action 
from first to last; that blending of the material 
and the mystical; that sense of waiting figures 
intangible as death, of mysterious featureless 
faces of which, sideways, we seem to catch a 
glimpse, although, on turning fully round, we find 
nothing there ? In Macbeth the air is thick with 
mystery, the whole action ruled by an invisible 
power; and it is just those words which are never 
heard, just those figures which seldom shape 
themselves more definitely than a cloud’s shadow, 
that give the play its mysterious beauty, its 
splendour, its depth and immensity, and in which 
lies its primary tragic element. 

Let the stage-manager concentrate his attention 
and that of his audience on the seen things which 
are temporal, and such a play is robbed of half 
its majesty and all its significance. But let him 
introduce, without travesty, the supernatural 
element; raise the action from the merely material 
to the psychological, and render audible to the 
ears of the soul if not of the body “ the solemn 
uninterrupted whisperings of man and his destiny,” 
point out “ the uncertain dolorous footsteps of the 
being, as he approaches, or wanders from, his truth, 
268 



MACBETH 




his beauty or his God,” and show how, underlying 
King Lear , Macbeth and Hamlet , is “ the murmur 
of eternity on the horizon,” 1 and he will be ful¬ 
filling the poet’s intention instead of turning his 
majestic spirits into sepulchral-voiced gentlemen 
with whitened faces and robes of gauze. 

Consider, for instance, more in detail, the play of 
Macbeth , in which “ the overwhelming pressure of 
preternatural agency urges on the tide of human 
passion with redoubled force.” 2 The whole success 
of its representation depends upon the power of the 
stage-manager to suggest this preternatural agency 
and on the capacity of the actor to submit to 
the tide of the play, to that mysterious mes¬ 
merism which masters Macbeth and his “ troop of 
friends.” 

I seem to see him in the first four acts of the play 
as a man who is hypnotized, seldom moving, but, 
when he does so, moving as a sleep-walker. Later 
on in the play the places are changed, and Lady 
Macbeth’s sleep-walking is like the grim, ironical 
echo of Macbeth’s whole life, a sharp, shrill echo 
quickly growing fainter, fainter, and gone. 

In the last act Macbeth awakes. It almost seems 
to be a new role. Instead of a sleep-walker dragging 
his feet heavily he becomes an ordinary man startled 
from a dream to find the dream true. He is not 
the man some actors show him to be, the trapped, 
cowardly villain; nor yet is he to my mind the 

1 Maeterlinck. 2 Hazlitt. 

2C9 



MACBETH 




•«£> 


bold, courageous villain as other actors play him. 
He is as a doomed man who has been suddenly 
awakened on the morning of his execution, and, in 
the sharpness and abruptness of that awakening, 
understands nothing but the facts before him, and 
even of these understands the external meaning 
only. He sees the army in front of him; he will 
fight, and he prepares to do so, puzzling all the 
time about the meaning of his dream. Occasionally 
he relapses into his state of somnambulism. While 
his wife lived he was not conscious of his state, he 
acted the part of her medium perfectly, and she in 
her turn acted as medium to the spirits whose duty 
it ever is to test the strength of men by playing 
with their force upon the weakness of women. 

Nietzsche, writing of Macbeth, sees only the 
mad ambition of the man, this human passion of 
ambition; and he tells us that this sight, instead 
of irresistibly detracting from the evil ambition 
in us, rather augments it. Perhaps this is so; but 
it seems to me that behind all this there is much 
more than evil ambition and the idea of the hero 
and the villain. 

Behind it all I seem to perceive the unseen forces 
already spoken of; those spirits that Shakespeare 
was always so fond of hinting stood behind all 
things of this earth, moved them, and moved 
them apparently to these great deeds for good or 
evil. 

In Macbeth they are called by the old grand- 
270 



MACBETH 

A Witch.—Act IV. Scene I. 


2nd Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake ; 

In the cauldron boil and bake ; 

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, 

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, 
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, 
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing, 

For a charm of powerful trouble 
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble . 

All. Double, double, toil and trouble ; 

Fire, burn ; and, cauldron, bubble. 


MACBETH 





He is as a doomed man who has been suddenly 
awakened on the morning of his execution, and, ii> 
the sharpen; and abruptness of that awakening, 
understands nothing but the fact- before hire .rd 
even of these understands the exi .-/mini 

only. He sees the army la front of him; u< 

/ . , < puzzling ail 

time about Ujjat&BB A 

VsAWa \jswv. ; >\ i'-V .doiiYf'ba'J. 

\ iwibLoi aM-M state, he 

a* ; = J the / < ^ w-X« * a d siie ir 

her turn acted rtffl.V [ ut y 

e .mqw-bjnJo b$vo a tsbbK 

,$ft«w V^l afcrtirt&I •'' P ;l >~b*g 

aWhsVft biVrsaio^ \o i\rt&sta © to^ Woil*en• 
.sW&>sd bito Jfcod o aii»l 

V akWoti b^c Jioi />iduob .sWvi-oQ. 

.aWdud t wd>W»D t bs\© \ irtmJ. <ywn 



it. ever 3 
with thei 

Nietssr 

mad //»: 
ambit*/ 
of UTi . 1 

-»o } 


.HA 


instead 
ambition 
s so; b ut 
is much 


in us, rr ner /: f it * <; 

it seems to me th.v m*hmd ail this i 
more than evil am -lion and the idea of the hero 
and the villain. 

Behind it all I seem to perceive the unseen forces 
already spoken of; those spirits that Shakespeare 
was always so fond of hinting stood behind e.ii 
things of this earth, moved them, and moved 
' appre Ply to these great deed fo good o: 
evil. 

h . Macbeth they are c a lied by the old gre.nd- 
270 



















THE ( T H R E E WITCHES ’ 


mother’s title of the Three Witches, that elastic 
name which the public in the theatre may either 
laugh at or be serious about as it wishes. 

Now when I speak of this hypnotic influence of 
these spirits as though I were mentioning something 
quite new, I am speaking entirely in relation to the 
interpretation of Shakespeare on the stage and not 
merely as his student. I know that the students 
have written about these spirits, comparing them to 
certain figures in the Greek tragedy and writing 
of them far more profoundly than I can do. But 
their writings are for those who read Shakespeare, 
or who see him acted, not for those who take part 
in the presentation of his plays. Whether the 
plays were ever intended to be acted or no, whether 
or not they gain by being acted, does not concern 
me here. But if I were asked to present this play 
of Macbeth upon the stage, I should need to bring 
to it an understanding different entirely from that 
which the student brings when he has only himself 
to consider as he sits reading it in private. You 
may feel the presence of these witches as you read 
the play, but which of you has ever felt their 
presence when you saw the play acted ? And 
therein lies the failure of the producer and the 
actor. 

In Macbeth it is, to my mind, during the hypnotic 
moments that we should feel the overpowering 
force of these unseen agencies; and how to make 
this felt, how to make it clear and yet not actual, 
271 



THE CHIEF DIFFICULTY 


is the problem of the stage-manager. To me it 
seems that the play has never yet been properly 
performed because we have never yet felt these 
spirits working through the woman at the man, and 
to achieve this would be one of the most difficult 
tasks which could be set the stage-manager, 
though not because of the difficulty of purchasing 
gauze which should be sufficiently transparent, 
not because of the difficulty of finding machinery 
capable of raising the ghosts, or any other such 
reason. The chief difficulty lies with the two 
performers of the roles of Lady Macbeth and 
Macbeth, for if it is admitted that this spiritual 
element which Shakespeare called the Witches and 
Ghosts is in any way connected with the pain of 
these two beings, Macbeth and his Lady, then 
these two characters must show this to the audience. 

But, while it rests with the actors of these two 
parts, it also rests with the actors of the witches, 
and above all with the stage-manager, to bring 
these spirits and their mediums into effective 
harmony. 

On the stage the spirits are never seen during 
the scenes of Lady Macbeth, neither are we con¬ 
scious of their influence; yet as we read the play 
we are not only conscious of the influence of these 
“ sightless substances ”; we are somehow conscious 
of their presence. We feel it as the presence of 
the French Abbe was felt in Shorthouse’s romance 
of The Countess Eve. 


272 



THE CHIEF DIFFICULTY 


Are there not moments in the play when one of 
these three spirits seems to have clapped its skinny 
hand upon Lady Macbeth’s mouth and answered 
in her stead ? And who was it, if not one of them, 
who drew her by the wrist as she passed into the 
room of the old king with the two daggers in her 
hand ? Who was it pushed her by the elbow as 
she smeared the faces of the grooms ? Again, 
what is this dagger that Macbeth sees in the air ? 
by what thread of hair does it hang ? who dangles 
it ? and whose is the voice heard as he returns from 
the chamber of the murdered king ? 

Macb. I’ve done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise ? 

Lady M. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. 

Did not you speak ? 

Macb. When ? 

Lady M. Now. 

Macb. As I descended ? 

Who is this that was heard to speak as he 
descended ? 

And who are these mysterious three who dance 
gaily without making any sound around this 
miserable pair as they talk together in the dark 
after the dark deed ? We know quite well as we 
read; we forget altogether when we see the play 
presented upon the stage. There we see only the 
weak man being egged on by the ambitious woman 
who is assuming the manners of what is called the 
“ Tragedy Queen ”; and in other scenes we see the 
same man, having found that the same ambitious 
T 273 



o WHAT WE SHOULD SEE o 


lady does not assist him, calling upon some bogies 
and having an interview with them in a cavern. 

What we should see is a man in that hypnotic 
state which can be both terrible and beautiful to 
witness. We should realize that this hypnotism 
is transmitted to him through the medium of his 
wife, and we should recognize the witches as 
spirits, more terrible because more beautiful than 
we can conceive except by making them terrible. 
We should see them, not as Hazlitt imagined them, 
as 44 hags of mischief, obscene panderers to iniquity, 
malicious from their impotence of enjoyment, 
enamoured of destruction, because they are them¬ 
selves unreal, abortive, half-existences, who be¬ 
come sublime from their exemption from all 
human sympathies and contempt for all human 
affairs,” but rather picture them to ourselves as 
we picture the militant Christ scourging the money¬ 
lenders, the fools who denied Him. Here we have 
the idea of the supreme God, the supreme Love, 
and it is that which has to be brought into Macbeth 
on the stage. We see in this instance the God of 
Force as exemplified in these witches, placing these 
two pieces of mortality upon the anvil and crushing 
them because they were not hard enough to resist; 
consuming them because they could not stand the 
fire : offering the woman a crown for her husband, 
flattering her beyond measure, whispering to her 
of her superior force, of her superior intellect; 
whispering to him of his bravery. 

274 



THE MEETING 






See how persuasively the spirits can work upon 
the man or the woman when separated and alone ! 
listen to the flow of their language; they are 
drunk with the force of these spirits though unaware 
of their presence. 

But note the moment when these two come 
together. In each other’s faces they see, as it 
were, something so strange that they seem to be 
surprised by a reminiscence. “ Where have I seen 
that before or felt that which I now see ? ” Each 
becomes furtive, alert, fearful, on the defensive, 
and so there is no outpouring of speech here, but 
their meeting is like the cautious approach of two 
animals. 

What is it they see?—the spirit which clings 
round the feet or hangs upon the neck, or, as in the 
old Durer picture, is whispering in the ear ? Yet 
why, one wonders, should these spirits appear so 
horrible when a moment ago we were speaking of 
them as beings so divine as to resemble the militant 
Christ? and the answer seems obvious. Is it not 
possible that the spirit may take as many forms 
as the body, as many forms as thought ? These 
spirits are the many souls of nature, inexorable to 
the weak, yet obedient to those who obey. 

But now let us come to the appearance of Banquo 
at the feast. 

The whole play leads up to, and down from, this 
point. It is here that are pronounced the most 
terrible words heard during the play, here that is 
T 2 275 



BAN QUO 






offered the most amazing impression for the eye. 
And in order to reach this moment decently, 
intelligently, that is to say, artistically, the figures 
must not walk about on the ground for the first 
two acts and suddenly appear on stilts in the 
third act or line, for then a great truth will appear 
as a great lie, Banquo’s ghost as nothing. 

We must open this play high up in an atmosphere 
loftier than that in which we generally grope, and 
which is a matter-of-fact, put-on-your-boots atmo¬ 
sphere ; for this is a matter of fancy, a matter of 
that strangely despised thing, the imagination; that 
which we call the spiritual. 

We should be conscious of the desire of the spirit 
to see the woman utterly annihilated herself rather 
than submit to the influence which this spirit 
brings upon the flesh as a test. We should see the 
horror of the spirit on perceiving the triumph of 
this influence. 

Instead, we see of all this nothing on the stage. 
We do not know why the witches are worrying 
these two people; we feel that it is rather un¬ 
pleasant. But that is not the feeling which should 
be created in us. We see bogies and imps of the 
cauldron, and pitchforks, and the little mosquito¬ 
like beings of the pantomimes, but we never 
see the God, the Spirit, which we ought to see; 
that is to say, the beautiful spirit, that patient, 
stern being who demands of a hero at least the 
heroic. 


276 



^ UNWIELDY MATERIAL o 


Shakespeare’s characters are so often but weak 
beings; Lady Macbeth is perhaps the weakest of 
them all, and if that is the beauty—and unmis¬ 
takably it is a great beauty—it is the beauty of 
disease and not the supreme beauty. 

Having read of these characters, we are left to 
ourselves and our own contemplation, and each will 
add that thought which Shakespeare left to be 
added by each. There is great freedom permitted 
to the reader, for much has been left unsaid, but so 
much has also been said that nearly all is indicated, 
and to the imaginative brain these spirits are 
clearly implied and the fruits of the imagination 
are always welcomed by the unimaginative, who 
devour them as Eve must have devoured the 
forbidden fruit. 

Therefore when a stage-manager happens to have 
imagination he must also set before the people the 
fruits of this imagination. 

But look at the unwieldy material which is 
tossed to him ! What can he do with rubbish 
such as scenery, such as costumes, such as moving 
figures which he can shove here and there and place 
in this or that light ? Is this material for so subtle 
a thing as imagination to work with ? Perhaps 
it is; perhaps it is no worse than marble or the 
material used for erecting a cathedral; perhaps all 
depends upon the manner of the use. 

Well, then, admitting this, let the stage-manager 
return to the material and determine to shake the 
277 



IS THE SPIRITUAL SO STRANGE!! 


dust out of it until he wakens it to real life; that 
is to say, the life of the imagination. For there is 
only one real life in art, and that is this life of 
imagination. The imaginative, that is the real 
in art, and in no modern play do we see the truth 
of this so tremendously revealed as in Macbeth . 

It is all very well for some people to talk about 
Shakespeare living in a curiously superstitious age, 
or choosing a theme from an age and a country 
which was soaked in superstition. 

Good heavens ! is the idea of a ghost, is the idea 
of a spirit, so strange ? Why, then the whole of 
Shakespeare is strange and unnatural, and we 
should hastily burn most of his works, for we want 
nothing which can be called strange and unnatural 
in the twentieth century. We want something we 
can clearly understand, and, as represented upon 
the stage, these plays are not clear to understand, 
for the foolish appearance of a spook is not a very 
understandable thing, though the reality of the 
presence of spirits around us seems to me to be a 
thing which all ordinary intelligences should be 
reminded of. 

Yet how can we show this thing properly if we 
take as the main and primary point for our con¬ 
sideration Macbeth and his wife, Banquo and his 
horse, and the thrones and the tables, and let these 
things blind us to the real issues of the drama ? 

Unless we see these spirits before we begin our 
work we shall never see them later on. For who 
278 



A PRACTICAL WORD OR TWO 


can see a spirit by looking for it behind an act 
drop ? No, the man who would show these plays 
as Shakespeare, perhaps, might wish them to be 
shown must invest every particle of them with a 
sense of the spiritual; and to do so he must entirely 
avoid that which is material, merely rational, or 
rather, that which exposes only its material shell, 
for the beholder would then come up against 
something thick and impenetrable and have to 
return to that swinging rhythm which flows not 
only in the words of Shakespeare but in his very 
breath, in the sweet aroma which lingers round his 
plays. 

But to speak more practically in conclusion. 

Had I to teach a young man who would venture 
to achieve this I would act as follows: I would take 
him through each portion of the play, and from 
each act, each scene, each thought, action, or 
sound, I would extract some spirit, the spirit which 
is there. And on the faces of the actors, on their 
costumes, and on the scene, by the light, by line, 
by colour, by movement, voice and every means 
at our disposal, I would repeatedly and repeatedly 
bring upon the stage some reminder of the presence 
of these spirits, so that on the arrival of Banquo’s 
ghost at the feast we should not commence to 
giggle, but should find it just and terrible; should 
be so keenly expectant, so attuned to the moment 
of its coming that we should be conscious of its 
presence even before we saw it there. 

279 



IN CONCLUSION 






It would be the natural climax, the natural 
conclusion; and from that point until the end of 
the play I would remove spirit by spirit from 
the faces, from the dresses, from the scenes, until 
nothing lay upon the stage but the body of Mac¬ 
beth, a handful of ashes left after the passage of a 
devouring fire. 

By this means the scorn which the appearance 
of a spirit arouses in us would be averted; and 
before the public was aware of it, a spirit-world 
would once more become a possibility, our minds 
would again open to receive the revelation of the 
unseen; and we should feel the truth of Hamlet’s 
words, “ There are more things in heaven and 
earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your 
philosophy.” 

1910. 


280 



MACBETH 

\ 

Act V. Scene V. 

Macbeth. To-morrow , and to-morrow, and io-morrow T 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day , 

To the last syllable of recorded time ; 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. Out , out, brief candle 
Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player , 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
Told by an idiot , full of sound and fury t 
Signifying nothing. 


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SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS 


I N a little book, which I published in 1905, 1 I 
ventured to agree with those who hold the 
opinion that Shakespeare’s plays were written for 
the Reader and not for the Stage. It seems many 
hold this opinion. Yet it was a satisfaction to 
me to come later across the following and other 
sentences in Goethe’s writings— 

“ Shakespeare belongs by rights to the history 
of poetry; in the history of the Theatre he only 
appears casually.” 

“ Shakespeare’s whole method of proceeding is 
one which encounters a certain amount of im¬ 
practicability upon the actual stage.” 

“ The very contractedness of the stage forces 
him to circumscribe himself.” 

Goethe comes to this conclusion, not at the 
beginning of his life but at the end of it, after his 
experience in the theatre has shown him that litera¬ 
ture and the stage are, and must be, independent 
one of the other. I still remain of the same opinion— 
that Shakespeare’s plays are not for representation, 
more especially because I am myself now work¬ 
ing on several Shakespearean representations, and 
therefore have occasion for passing in review the 
many different “ editions,” as they are called, of 

1 Reprinted here, p. 137. 

281 



HAMLET 






Shakespeare, especially the stage editions, and I am 
struck by one fact, and it is this : that the people 
who hold that Shakespeare was a master of 
theatrical art cut away from these plays lines, 
passages—nay, whole scenes: these words, pas¬ 
sages and scenes which, they say, were written 
for the stage. 

To say a thing is perfect and then to mutilate 
it, is most peculiar. If a manager wishes to cut 
a play, saying it will be better understood by the 
public if he does so, it is permissible provided he 
does not at the same time say that Shakespeare 
was a perfect master of dramatic art. Drama is 
for the people if ever an art was for the people, and 
if Shakespeare has not made himself clear to the 
people of all time, the actor-manager is not going 
to improve matters by cutting out large portions 
of the text. 

In Hamlet it is usual for that long passage com¬ 
mencing, “Now all occasions do inform against 
me,” to be removed by the manager, who says that 
it does not “ help the play.” Now this is a most 
extraordinary state of affairs, that managers should 
be permitted to say what does or does not “ help 
the plays ” of Shakespeare, after Shakespeare has 
himself decided. Other passages in the play are 
removed because the managers hold that they are 
indelicate or they hold that the audience would 
consider them indelicate. Cut the passage between 
Ophelia and Hamlet in Act III, scene ii, when he 
282 





THE CENSOR 




is lying at her feet, and you rob the character of 
Hamlet of very much of its force. Ophelia, in¬ 
stead of being a woman of intelligence, becomes an 
early Victorian debutante; and Hamlet, instead of 
being a man of his time and suggesting a period 
which was more than a period of manners, becomes 
a kind of preaching curate. 

Of course the Censor would object to this and 
other passages in Shakespeare, and he would be 
perfectly right, for the plays were not written for 
the stage; they were written to be read. If you 
wish to act them act them in their entirety or do 
not act them at all . 1 It is as ridiculous to say that 
the omission of a small passage is not going to harm 
such a work as to say that the omission of so small 
a portion of the body as the eye does not injure 
the whole. 

This liberty with great plays is no sign of civiliza¬ 
tion; it is barbarous in the extreme. Another 
argument advanced for acting in this way is that 
the performance must not last longer than a certain 
time. Time has nothing to do with a performance. 
If it is good we do not mind how long it takes : if 
it is bad it must be cut short, and therefore to 
advocate a short time is to imply a fear on the part 
of the manager that the play is going to be badly 

1 “. . . I am very glad to find that I can endorse Tieck’s 
opinion when he shows himself to be a zealous upholder of the 
unity, indivisibility, and unassailableness of Shakespeare’s plays, 
and insists on their being performed in their entirety and without 
revision or modification of any kind.”— Goethe. 

283 



o THE ‘TIME LIMIT' o 


represented. Can one have too much of a good 
thing ? Then, too, it is quite possible to perform 
a play of Shakespeare in its entirety in an evening 
provided the appliance for shifting the scenery is 
not so absurdly elaborate that it takes twenty 
minutes to change each act, and provided that the 
actors do not pause too long over each syllable, 
but exercise their brains to think a trifler faster. 
It is this slow delivery of Shakespeare’s lines which 
has made Shakespeare a bore to so many people. 
Here in the plays of Shakespeare we have passionate 
scenes of an amazing description, more passionate 
than in the Italian plays, and yet we drawl 
them and crawl them and are surprised when a 
Grasso comes to England and shows us how we 
should speak, act and reveal the suddenness and 
madness of passion. We seem to forget this fact, 
that passion is a kind of madness. We bring it 
to a logical attitude and we deliver it with the 
voice of the judge or the mathematician. It seems 
to have something to do with the totting up of 
accounts; thus with us it is a shopman, not Othello, 
who is throttling Desdemona. The emotional 
actors in England ought not to be content with 
themselves for not waking up and sweeping all these 
too deliberate and stodgy actors off the stage and 
out of the theatres. 

Would the plays of Shakespeare be then inter¬ 
preted as they should be ? No, not even then. 
Not if the finest and most passionate actors in 
284 



PASSION A KIND OF MADNESS 


the world w r ere to come together and attempt to 
perform Hamlet could the right representation of 
Hamlet be given, for I fear to represent Hamlet 
rightly is an impossibility. 

1908 . 

Note .— Yet since this was written, and since this booh was first 
published in 1911, I have myself attempted to produce Hamlet— 
the Hamlet of Shakespeare—at Moscow. Knowing it t vas im¬ 
possible, why did I attempt it? There are many reasons: l 
wanted to strengthen my belief—I wanted people to realize the 
truth. Also, I wanted to “ face the music’’ 1 —and I wanted to 
exercise my faculties as stage director (for I had not produced a 
play for many years). Added to this, I wanted to do what my 
friends wanted me to do. 

Was 1 satisfied ? Yes. I am more thoroughly convinced than 
ever that the plays of Shakespeare are unactable—that they are a 
bore when acted—but also that the crowd loves nothing so well as a 
good confusion of principles in a theatre as they do in architecture, 
as they do in music. If you ask me whether the Moscow Art 
Theatre did well, I reply. Very, very well—but that it abided 
faithfully to principles, the principles which govern our Art, is not 
the case. 

Had it been true to principles it would have closed its doors 
three years ago, when I told its directors that this was the only 
right course open to it. Still it remains the first theatre in 
Europe—it reigns in Hell. 

1912. 


285 



KEALISM AND THE ACTOR 


OU ask me if I consider Realism in acting to be 



JL a frank representation of human nature. Yes. 
Realism is exactly this : a frank representation of 
human nature. The modern writers and painters 
attest to this by what they write of and paint, and 
by the way in which they write and paint it. 

And because the realists attempt to represent 
Nature so frankly (which frankness they call truth 
and which generally borders upon brutality), and 
because this frankness is no fruit, no blossom, but 
merely the roots of a new growth, so I believe that 
the actor will never ask for the same liberty as the 
writers and painters of to-day, that he may give 
these brutalities their “ counterfeit presentment ” 
with all accuracy of detail at command. 

I can call to mind no actor so lacking in intelli¬ 
gence as to desire to present with all its actuality 
the moment of death as expressed by the modern 
realist in literature and painting, or the moments 
of love as expressed by these same frank and most, 
most blind leaders. 

The realists may claim that they are not con¬ 
cerned so much with the subjects they treat of as 
with the manner in which they treat these subjects. 
If so, then, is it a most extraordinary fact that the 
realists only concern themselves with what is ugly 
or brutal, and always with what the idealists have 
given so much thought to veil ? 


286 



REALISM AND THE ACTOR 


The question you forgot to put me is whether 
the public would allow the actor to express the same 
feelings and the same incidents as both idealistic 
and realistic writers have somehow or other won 
the right to express. 

What is the difference between the picture and 
the word, and the living, breathing actuality ? 
Why, even the public that sits in the pit of a 
theatre feels the difference and would refuse to 
let the actor reveal what it allows Milton and 
Rabelais to reveal. Then how can there be a 
shadow of doubt that the actor not only should 
not be permitted the same liberty as the writer or 
painter, but actually is not permitted that licence ? 

Realism is a vulgar means of expression bestowed 
upon the blind. Thus we have the clear-sighted 
singing: “ Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty—that 
is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” 
The blind are heard croaking: “ Beauty is Realism, 
Realism Beauty—that is all I know on earth, and 
all I care to know—don’t cher know! ” 

The difference is all a matter of love. He who 
loves the earth sees beauty everywhere : he is a 
god transforming by knowledge the incomplete 
into the complete. He can heal the lame and 
the sick, can blow courage into the weary, and he 
can even learn how to make the blind see. The 
power has always been possessed by the artist, 
who, in my opinion, rules the earth. 

It is quite likely that Realism may appeal at one 
287 



REALISM AND THE ACTOR 


period to the public and not at another period. 
The public is not concerned with the quest of know¬ 
ledge; no, not even with the wisdoms of wisdom, 
that simple everyday atom of truth which waits, 
unseen, everlastingly everywhere. The public is 
concerned with the quest of money—and, with 
money, that fat and brutal power to revenge 
which it can bring—that power to give like a 
lady a handshake when a kiss is too little; that 
power to give like a lord ten pounds to a “ po’r 
beggah,” and that power to give a little charity 
when only love is enough. And so long as the 
public is made up of this class of monstrous mean¬ 
ness, of that which gives half or three-quarters 
instead of all, so long will it love its Realism, which 
is the short measure or meanness of the artist. 

Anyhow, there is nothing which need cause 
playgoers anxiety; there is no need for them to 
feel depressed; furious, if you like, but depressed ? 
not a whit: for the limited section of playgoers 
who love beauty and detest Realism is a small 
minority of about six million souls. They are 
scattered here and there over the earth. They 
seldom, if ever, go to the modern theatre. That 
is why I love them, and intend to unite them. 

Forte de’ Marmi, 1908 . 


288 



OPEN - AIE THEATRES 


I T seems to me that the Theatre has nearly 
always longed to be “ natural,” that the play¬ 
wrights, actors and scene-painters, have nearly 
always struggled to free themselves from being 
“ theatrical.” Even in the eighteenth century, 
when most things gloried in a sumptuous artificial¬ 
ity gorgeous in silver gilt, there appears a master 
who attempts to make all things “natural ” again; 
and yet Moliere’s plays seem to us to-day anything 
but natural, and their ancient manner of repre¬ 
sentation strikes us as very artificial. 

Not for one but for many centuries men have 
crowned their chosen playwright for that he was 
more “ natural ” than his fellows, yet the plays 
of Shakespeare no longer strike us as “ natural ”; 
even Robertson with his Caste and Ours , which 
were looked upon as very natural a few years ago, 
and their manner of representation quite like life, 
to-day seem antiquated, somewhat artificial. 

There are some who go so far as to say that the 
earlier plays of Sir Arthur Pinero and the later 
plays by Mr. Shaw have grown artificial. 

Scene-painting, too. A hundred years ago Clark¬ 
son Stanfield in England was painting scenery 
which amazed the critics by its “ natural ” appear¬ 
ance, and that, too, after they had known the work 
of de Loutherbourg; and soon Stanfield was looked 
u 289 



ACTORS 






on as unnatural, for Telbin the Elder gave them 
what they asserted was very Nature itself; and yet 
hardly have they said so before they eat their words, 
turn their backs on Telbin, and find true Nature in 
Hawes Craven, only to put him away a little later 
for Harker, who “ at last paints Nature for us.” 

Nor is it any better with the acting. The 
Kembles and their grand artificiality had to make 
room for Edmund Kean, who in thirty years from 
then was looked on as anything but natural, for 
was not Macready “ more natural ” ? And in a few 
years’ time all of these actors seemed to us stilted 
and artificial when Henry Irving appeared. And 
now we talk of Irving’s artificiality by the side of 
Antoine’s natural acting. “It is Nature itself,” 
cry the critics, and soon Antoine’s natural acting 
is to become mere artifice by the side of the acting 
of Stanislawsky. 

What, then, are all these manifestations of this 
“ Nature ” ? 

I find them one and all to be merely examples of 
a new artificiality—the artificiality of naturalism. 

Dramatists, actors, scenic artists are under a 
spell—do you remember the story of the Sleeping 
Beauty ?—and the spell must be broken before 
they can awake. To break it will be at once most 
hard and most easy—most hard to those who were 
born to sleep, most easy for one born to awaken; 
but most assuredly until this spell be broken, utterly 
and entirely destroyed, all the plays, acting and 
290 



ACTORS 






scenes on the stage of Europe must and will remain 
theatrical . 1 

I do not think the time has arrived when I can 
give you a hint of how to break this spell which 
lies over the European Theatre; besides, my purpose 
here is to put a question to you, not to answer 
one. It might be borne in mind that I have put my 
question to you without any thought of what is 
called its “ practicality,” and that the answers 
must be made in the same spirit. There is always 
a very natural desire in man (born of a sound 
caution) to keep things on a practical basis, and 
when we discuss economic or hygienic questions it 
is as well to be as practical as possible. 

But where the question takes us outside that 
radius, and when we enter into discussion of those 
things which emanate from the spirit, such as the 
arts or philosophy, we might do well to consider 
them in as ideal a manner as they deserve; we can 
later on return to earth and attempt their symbol¬ 
ization. My question is this— 

Do you feel that the Open-air Theatre is the right 
place in which to present the people with that 

1 Here we have to acknowledge that a certain charm (the 
▼ ery essence and reflection of that Romance which comes to us 
in Books . • .) lies in the pretty or swaggering artifice of the 
“ theatrical.” We most of us love the fun of the sham, and 
admire the playfulness of tinsel, powder and rouge ; but all of us 
in the Theatre, from the first actor of the realm to the last call- 
boy of the provinces, are longing with all our hearts for the 
whole spirit of Nature to take possession of this, the home which 
we love. 


291 





THE QUESTION 




which we call the Art of the Theatre, or do you 
feel that a roofed-in theatre is better ? The first 
supplies us with natural conditions, the second 
with artificial conditions. 

1909. 


292 



SYMBOLISM 


a 




“ It is in and through Symbols that man, con¬ 
sciously or unconsciously, lives, works and has 

HIS BEING : THOSE AGES, MOREOVER, ARE ACCOUNTED 
THE NOBLEST WHICH CAN THE BEST RECOGNIZE SYM¬ 
BOLICAL WORTH, AND PRIZE IT HIGHEST.”—CARLYLE. 

S YMBOLISM 1 is really quite proper; it is sane, 
orderly, and it is universally employed. It 
cannot be called theatrical if by theatrical we 
mean something flashy, yet it is the very essence of 
the Theatre if we are to include its art among the 
fine arts. 

Symbolism is nothing to be afraid of—it is 
delicacy itself; it is understood as easily by the 
ploughman or sailor as by kings and other men 
in high places. Some there are who are afraid of 
symbolism, but it is difficult to discover why, and 
these persons sometimes grow very indignant and 
insinuate that the reason why they dislike symbol¬ 
ism is because there is something unhealthy and 
harmful about it. “ We live in a realistic age,” 
is the excuse they put forward. But they cannot 
explain how it is that they make use of symbols 
to tell us this, nor how it is that all their lives they 
have made use of this same thing which they find 
so incomprehensible. 

For not only is Symbolism at the roots of all 

1 “ Symbolism, : A systematic use of symbols; a symbol; a 
visible sign of an idea.”—W ebster. 

293 



SYMBOLS 






art, it is at the roots of all life, it is only by means 
of symbols that life becomes possible for us; we 
employ them all the time. 

The letters of the alphabet are symbols, used 
daily by sociable races. The numerals are symbols, 
and chemistry and mathematics employ them. 
All the coins of the world are symbols, and business 
men rely upon them. The crown and the sceptre 
of the kings and the tiara of the popes are symbols. 
The works of poets and painters, of architects and 
sculptors, are full of symbolism; Chinese, Egyptian, 
Greek, Roman, and the modern artists since the 
time of Constantine have understood and valued 
the symbol. Music only became intelligible through 
the employment of symbols, and is symbolic in its 
essence. All forms of salutation and leave-taking 
are symbolic and employ symbols, and the last act 
of affection rendered to the dead is to erect a 
symbol over them. 

I think there is no one who should quarrel with 
Symbolism—nor fear it. 

1910 . 


294 



THE EXQUISITE AND 
THE PRECIOUS a 0 


S WINE cannot appreciate pearls. This has at 
last become a well-known fact, acknowledged 
by the majority. 

The majority of people known to us certainly 
appreciate pearls; therefore the majority may be 
said to appreciate that which is both exquisite 
and precious. 

I do not care whether the pearls are appreciated 
because they are so rare and so costly—all the 
better that they are so—or because they look so 
lovely. Either reason is good enough, for the 
result is the same. Wonder and excitement are 
aroused, the things are sure to be handled tenderly, 
and the wearer will probably hold her head more 
charmingly than before. Thus we see that to be 
near the precious and the exquisite is to become 
more exquisite, more precious, ourselves. 

It is a pity that the Theatre is neither exquisite 
nor precious. 

I want, in place of violent expression of violent 
emotions and ideas, more exquisite expression of 
more precious emotions and ideas. 

In place of vulgar materials, such as prose, coarse 
wooden boards, canvas, paint, papier mdche and 
powder, I would like more precious materials to 
be employed: Poetry, or even that far more 
precious Silence—ebony and ivory—silver and 
gold—the precious woods of rare trees—exquisite 
295 



MATERIAL OF THE THEATRE 


silks unusually dyed—marble and alabaster—and 
fine brains. 

The public is no fool: it will not value a lump of 
coal above a diamond; it prefers silk and ivory 
any day to wood and canvas. A critic who denies 
this is a duffer. 

So then, gentlemen, I ask you to consider the 
imitation Lily of the Theatre and to compare it with 
that more precious species, with her of the field. 

And thanking you for past criticisms, I ask you 
to criticize justly the present material of the modem 
theatre. If you do so even w r ith tolerance you will 
rouse us all to a state bordering upon exquisite 
rage; but you will confer upon the Theatre an 
honour—the honour of believing that it is still 
open to noble criticism, still worthy of judgment 
pronounced upon its essentials, and not alone upon 
its non-essential details. 

If a fig-tree should bear thistles would you 
criticize the prickly result ? Would you waste 
your time protesting against the quality of the 
thistle and write it down an indifferent specimen 
and ask for better ? 

Then why do you criticize the false product of 
our noble art ? 

I pray you to study the Nature of the art of the 
Theatre, so that with your assistance once again 
the flower and fruit of it may be found to be both 
exquisite and precious. 

1910 . 

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